


Embers

by zavocado



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dany's a princess, F/F, F/M, Jonerys Week 2018, M/M, Modern Royalty, Modern Royalty AU, Modern Westeros, Multi, Not that Jon knows it, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar's alive, Rhaella's the queen of Westeros cause fuck yeah, The Butts that were promised, let the smut begin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 120,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zavocado/pseuds/zavocado
Summary: War-ravaged Jon Snow lives a humble existence as a firefighter in the grimy district of Flea Bottom, King's Landing. High above on Aegon's High Hill, Princess Daenerys dreams of a simpler life, far from public scrutiny where she's more than a shadow of her mother's queenly perfection.Written for “A Dream of Spring”, Jonerys Week Summer 2018.Prompt: Modern Royalty AU





	1. JON I

**Author's Note:**

> So this inspired by the Jonerys "A Dream of Spring".
> 
> I've been playing around with this idea for a while now, but figured this was the best excuse to start posting. This is going to be a multi-chapter deal set in a modern Westeros, featuring my favorite royal dorks, Jon and Dany. I'm still working out all the ins and outs of modernizing Westeros and where it differs from ours, but full speed ahead!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Night fell dark and swift in the North. Overhead the sky was a dome of stars, flickering specks, the moon a sliver of pale light. 

Jon Snow gazed up from his brother’s back garden seated on the rocking bench set upon the wooden deck. Skies here were much calmer than his life in King’s Landing. Down in Westeros’s capital city, the air was always hazy and humid. No stars were visible. Instead an orange glow hovered in the sky, the city lights polluting the stars from sight. Even in the heart of his father’s northern city, Winterfell, the skies had become unnatural until you reached the moors and smaller towns beyond.

“You were right,” Jon said, as he rocked on the creaking bench. “I’ve missed this sight.”

Robb Stark locked the wheels on his wheelchair and glanced skyward. His auburn curls fluttered in the cool wind. “One of us had to be smart. You’re the nut who thought King’s Landing was a choice idea.”

Jon rolled his eyes and stretched out his cramped and aching legs. Today had been a long one, full of hours of physical therapy for Robb and then his own intense training. Robb was his half-brother in truth, only a few months older than himself, but they’d grown up as close as twins. They’d done everything together for as long as Jon could remember. First days of school, first lost teeth, first crushes and kisses, and puberty. At eighteen, they’d gone to war and come back as haunted shadows. 

Physically, Jon had fared better. A few scars on his stomach and chest, two thin ones around his eyes.Tinnitus had plagued him for the better part of that first year, and a long struggle with concussions and the after effects. But Robb had lost half a leg and half his mind for a time. Two years had passed since their return home, and slowly the brothers had rediscovered enough aspects of normalcy to find peace.

“The city has its perks,” Jon reminded him. “Lots of friends and pubs, and my job’s never boring in King’s Landing.”

Robb sighed and rubbed the stub of his right leg, scratching at the scabs the old, ill-fitted prosthetic had left. He’d had another test fitting for his newest model today that seemed to work much better. Soon he might have one permanently. “It’s too crowded, too far from everyone. Too  _ noisy. _ ” Robb pointed a finger right in Jon’s face. “And  _ you _ haven’t been home since—”

“I’ve my own home now.” Jon kept his eyes on the skies instead of the determination he’d find on Robb’s face. “Winterfell was never… it’s best if I’m not around much.”

“A shoebox flat in Flea Bottom isn’t a home. And no,” Robb continued when Jon opened his mouth to argue, “the firehouse doesn’t count. Even if Davos makes the best stew in Westeros.”

_ He’s like an uncle to me. All the men there are like brothers. They accept all that I am without flinching. They’ve never hated me for me or wanted me to be anything else. _

Jon said none of this. He couldn’t with Robb anymore, not since the war. They’d both been foolish boys when they’d turned eighteen. Robb had been a new graduate, top of his class, convinced he needed to dedicate some portion of his life to the military like their father and grandfather had. For Jon, the choice had almost been made for him. Returning to Winterfell from the Wall was impossible, no matter what his father claimed. He’d had few prospects, and not a single one besides the army had given him the chance to restore some sort of honor to himself.

He watched Robb in the flickering firelight of the garden’s new firepit, and kept it all to himself. They’d both come back different from the war. Two decorated soldiers with honor to their names and anguish in their hearts.

“They’re good men,” Jon said finally. “I like what I do. I serve and protect and save people’s lives as a firefighter.”

“I know that, you bloody hero, but we miss you all the same. Father most of all.”

Jon had not seen Lord Eddard Stark in almost two years. Vasectomy Christmas, as Arya and Robb had dubbed Jon’s last visit to Winterfell, had driven them apart. Revealing that particular decision over dinner, while his father and stepmother argued about Ned Stark getting the procedure himself, hadn’t been Jon’s wisest idea. Sometimes, he was full of bad ones. 

_ “Ned, there’s no reason to be so drastic,” Catelyn said, grasping Ned’s hand on the dining room table. “The doctors say there’s no danger in me having another child or two. We have the best care available.” _

_ “Cat, after Rickon, I think it’s best. That pregnancy nearly—” _

_ “One more, Ned. Another son, don’t you want that?” _

_ Her scornful eyes turned to Jon across the table, and Jon’s entire body went rigid. Another son that might have the Stark look this time. Of their three sons, not one had more than a hint of their father in them. His half-brothers had auburn hair and blue eyes, even the Tully build like their maternal uncles. But Jon was Ned’s very image, gray-eyed and dark of hair. Nobody ever doubted he was Ned’s son. More than once as small boys, the other northern lords had mistaken Jon for Robb during their visits. _

_ “It’s a simple procedure,” Jon said, stabbing at the slice of ham on his plate. “I was in and out in a few hours.” _

_ All around him the soft clinking of silverware stopped. His siblings stared at him; Robb wincing at the secret he’d already known, Sansa shocked as her new scarf fell from her hands, Arya bit her lip, Bran and Rickon pulling disgusted faces as only small boys could. But it was Ned’s expression that made Jon regret interjecting at all. _

_ “Jon, you… what doctor would ever agree when you’re only twenty?” _

_ “Most, actually.” Jon set his fork and knife down and met his father’s eyes.  _

_ Ned looked horrified, even devastated at the news. Triumph brightened Catelyn Stark’s eyes for a moment before she turned away. Then Ned pulled his hand free of hers and took Jon’s. _

_ “Jon, what if you want children someday? Or you meet someone you wish to share the rest of your life with? You’re so young.” _

_ “I’m a man now. I did it the moment I came of age,” Jon said. “If I do meet someone, it can be reversed, but this way I won’t father any bastards of my own.” _

Everyone had shifted uncomfortably at his honesty. Christmas dinner had gotten more bleak as the night progressed. By nightfall, a full-blown argument had come of his reveal. Jon had left in a rage, leaving his worried siblings behind with Catelyn’s coldness and Ned’s distress.

They’d made up of course, over text and a few phone calls, but Jon hadn’t returned to his father’s providence since. Lord Eddard Stark was bound to the North, sworn to protect his providence and oversee its law and order. No doubt one of his Stark sons would succeed him, much as the crown royalty in King’s Landing did.

“I miss all of you, too, but it’s a long drive.”

Coming to see Robb at his new home in Moat Cailin had taken near nine hours with traffic. Winterfell was another four beyond that.

“That’s a lame excuse,” Robb countered. “A flight from King’s Landing to Winterfell is only two hours, the train’s only five hours. If you can’t afford it, then Father would buy your ticket.”

“I can pay my own way.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Sadness lingered in Robb’s eyes, and Jon couldn’t stand the sight. He climbed to his feet and whistled into the darkness beyond the deck.

Two wolves raced across the grass, from the duck pond to the edge of the woods and back, weaving around each other. One white as snow, his brother charcoal gray and slighter in stature but burlier. The white was his, Ghost. Grey Wind was Robb’s. Lean and fierce, but a part of him in ways Jon and his siblings only whispered about amongst themselves. It was said the old magics of the world had died out long ago, but still pieces of it lingered. Their wolves were a part of that, a presence that made a warm comfort under his skin when Ghost was near.

Unfortunately, in the city, Jon had no place for Ghost. No flat would allow his presence for fear of residents’ safety, and Jon couldn’t afford the few places that had considered it. Instead, his wolf stayed out in the wild with Robb, Grey Wind, and Robb’s new wife, Margaery. He was happier for it, but Jon missed him fiercely. Every night, he dreamt his wolf dreams, running with his brother, and sometimes the other four if one of his siblings came to visit Robb.

“Damn wolf sleeps on a pile of clothes you keep here.” Robb chuckled as the two wolves snapped at each other and tumbled to the ground, biting and play-fighting. “Doesn’t matter where we hide them, he finds every piece and makes a drool soaked I-miss-Jon nest.”

Chuckling, Jon stepped down into the grass. “Ghost, to me.”

The albino wolf rolled to his feet and hurried over. After all the wrestling and tackling with Grey Wind, Jon had expected a kinder greeting. Instead Ghost leapt at his chest and knocked his ass into the mud. Ghost licked all over his face and neck.

“Ugh, damnit, wolf.”

Still, Jon rolled around with his wolf, let Ghost worry at his forearm before they settled in the damp grass and mud together. Behind them, Robb’s one booted foot stomped ominously closer.

_ Clomp clomp CLOMP. _

Robb hopped down the stairs, hand clenching the bannister. He took a seat on the bottom step and Grey Wind ran to him, giving him several sloppy wet kisses of his own.

“I see you boys both need baths.”

Margaery smiled down at them from an upstairs window.

“Only if you join me,” Robb called up to her.

Jon scooped up a fistful of mud and threw it at Robb’s face. Grey Wind caught most of it, snapping his teeth at the glob and making a terrible gagging sound at the taste. Robb gave Jon a good kick with his leg while Margaery laughed at them.

“Come on, it’s getting late, love. I’d rather _ not _ spend the night lonely.”

“I’ll be up after I convince Jon to come home for a visit.”

Margaery frowned. “If that’s the case, I best file for divorce right now, Robb Stark.”

She shut the window. Jon watched the bedroom light flicker off. Robb was eyeing him, though, instead of his wife.

“She’s right, you know. You haven’t been home in two years. No matter what you say or how much you work, I know you’re just trying to avoid Father and my mother.”

Jon stayed silent. Robb knew him far too well for him to buy any excuse or rebuttal he might offer. Ever since that Christmas, most especially after that look on his father’s face, Jon had avoided him. For every fundraiser invitation, every lordly party or event, even invites to the royal family’s yearly visits to the North. Not for Christmas nor Easter nor birthdays. Even when his father made a trip down to King’s Landing, Jon made sure he was busy with work. One benefit of being a firefighter was how unpredictable and long his shifts were. 

“Robb, she doesn’t  _ want _ me there.”

“And? The rest of us do.  _ Father  _ does. And Arya and Bran and Rickon. Even  _ Sansa  _ misses you.”

That did surprise him. His redheaded sister had always been something of a spoiled brat as they were growing up. Sansa was almost nineteen now, though, and off at university. She was hardly the snotty sixteen-year-old he’d last seen. And Arya… his favorite little sister was seventeen. She’d come to visit him during her holiday from school, but otherwise he’d not seen any of them besides Robb. How long had it been since he’d picked a football around with Bran and Rickon? Or mussed up Arya’s wild hair? When was the last time he’d seen any of their faces in person instead of on a screen?

When Jon met his brother’s eyes, he couldn’t refuse him.

“I’ll talk to Davos about a holiday.” He held up his hands to fend off Robb’s hug. “No promises, okay? He might refuse me the time off, and it won’t be for at least a month if he lets me.”

Robb snorted and ruffled Jon’s brushed back curls. 

“Refuse? I bet he’s just  _ waiting _ to get rid of you.”

 

* * *

 

Robb turned out to be more right than not. Jon returned to King’s Landing after their weekend together, and avoided asking Davos for as long as he could. But somehow, word had gotten out about his suddenly, very certain visit, and after a week of fending off texts and calls from four younger siblings, Jon relented.

Ser Davos Seaworth was a good man, and a remarkable firefighter. He had a knack for getting people out of spaces that most other firefighters could not. When Jon approached him about a holiday, Davos snorted over the pot of crab and onion stew bubbling on the stove.

“About time. Get going, then, lad.”

Jon stared at him. “What?  _ Now? _ ”

Davos stirred the huge pot and nodded. He squinted at Jon through the steam, smiling that knowing smile of his. “You’ve worked here near three years, Jon, and taken one holiday that you cut short, if I remember right. Been working yourself into the ground ever since. You’ve got more leave available than the rest of us combined.”

Tormund stomped into the firehouse’s kitchen then, his ginger beard a wild tangle and his protective coveralls still on. Unlike the rest of the crew, Tormund wore half his gear constantly, no matter how much Davos told him not to.

“You leaving us, Snow? Is that the way of it?” Tormund made a swipe for Jon’s head, and missed, his attempted bear hug almost unending Davos’s stew. 

“Tormund, leave him be.”

Tormund, of course, didn’t listen. He dove for Jon a second time, but Jon was too quick. He managed to put the large, rectangular table between himself and the brute of a man. After a few feints, Tormund relented, grinning widely at Jon.

“What’s her name, then, boy? You do her cunt right, nice and wet and tight?”

Behind him, Davos’s ladle clattered to the floor.

“Tormund, how many times have we discussed talking like that?”

Val entered from the bunk room, her golden curls a rumpled mess. She rubbed her eyes and then kicked Tormund in the shin.

“Enough for him to know better.” She sniffed the stew, then came over to Jon. “And Jon Snow knows how to please a woman as I recall. He could teach you a thing or two about what you should be doing with that mouth.”

As Tormund thundered with laughter, Jon flushed. Val grinned at him, then smacked his butt and winked. They’d hooked up years ago, when Jon had first come to King’s Landing. A few weeks of passion and fucking, a relief for each of them with how tumultuous their lives had been then. Val had just lost her sister and nephew. Jon had just returned from the war and spent half a year bringing Robb back to some tattered sense of sanity.

“You got a taste for it, boy?” Tormund tried to pry his mouth open. “Silvertongue, or is it pussytongue?”

After that, Jon didn’t need anymore convincing to start his vacation immediately. He returned to his cramped flat to pack, then texted the group chat his siblings had been pestering him on for a solid week. House Stark was what Robb had called it, despite Jon’s protest that he was not, in fact, a Stark. Sansa had been the first to respond to that—all five of his siblings had shouted back that he was to them. Arya had gone so far as to threaten strangling him with his entrails if he ever dared to say otherwise again.

**_Jon:_ ** _ Snow in tomorrow night’s forecast. _

**_Arya:_ ** _ Are you shitting me?! I JUST left for Braavos, you bastard. _

**_Jon:_ ** _ Come to KL when your training season’s done, little sister. I’ve got half a couch with your name on it. _

**_Arya:_ ** _ Only half? I’m not that small. _

**_Robb:_ ** _ Ha, I told you Davos would boot you. _

**_Sansa:_ ** _ I’ll be down Thursday evening after my last class :) Can’t wait to see you!! _

**_Bran:_ ** _ Rickon’s running down the hall shrieking in excitement. _

Jon chuckled at that. He hadn’t seen Bran or Rickon in person since Vasectomy Christmas, but according to Robb both boys were almost as tall as him now. 

**_Bran:_ ** _ He just fell down the stairs. _

**_Jon:_ ** _ That’s charming. _

**_Theon:_ ** _ As charming as Vasectomy Christmas :P Can we expect a repeat? _

**_Sansa:_ ** _ Whoever invited Theon to this group chat is dead to me. _

As his siblings argued and scolded Theon for every word he typed, Jon set his phone aside to clean up his flat. He didn’t have much to do—some dishes, wiping down the counters, stuffing his dirty laundry into the washer. Catelyn Stark might dote on her children when they brought home a month’s worth of stinky clothes, but Jon didn’t have the same luxury. Just as he put the last dish in the drying rack, his phone rang. He answered without checking the caller.

“Theon, seriously, I don’t care—”

“Jon, how are things?”

“Father.” He swallowed and leaned back against the counter. “Things are good. Really good.”

“That’s what Rickon said,” Ned Stark said, but his voice was full of amusement. “A scraped knee and a bloody nose, but he’s still squealing about you coming to visit.”

“He really did fall down the stairs then?”

“Of course, he did. As much as he’s growing right now, he can’t walk half a block without tripping over something. Cat’s going to lecture him half the night at this rate. When can we expect you? Bran said something about tomorrow.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah, um, late tomorrow. If that’s okay, I mean. I asked for a holiday for next month, but Davos kind of shoved me out the door and started it today. But I can… can do something else. I don’t want to impose or—”

“Jon, son, you are always welcome here. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been far too long.”

His father’s voice broke, and Jon felt a welling of tears behind his eyes. “Aye, it’s been a bit. But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Great. I’ll put in for some time off while you’re here. We can take your brothers camping like us and Robb used to do. How’s that sound?

“Great. That’d be great.”

“I love you, Jon.”

“Yeah, I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

Somehow, his evening of packing and plans for any early sleep ended up being a pub crawl with Tormund and Edd. Edd Dollett, or Dolorous Edd as their firehouse precinct called him, was a slight man, and droll to a fault. The pair took Jon to all of their favorite haunts around Flea Bottom despite his protests, then across the city to the more questionable bars and dives by the Mud Gate. As Tormund drank other patrons under the table, Edd told morose tales of his failed romances from the last week.

“Might just go celibate like you, Snow. No lady cares for me these days, especially not when I’m got your pretty face distracting them from talking with me. It’d be my luck she’d come home with me, then scream your name.”

Jon snorted, but didn’t deny his words. A dozen women had already come on to him tonight, and the raunchier the place got, the more lewd the advances. He scanned the crowd for Tormund, but saw no sign of his towering head of ginger hair.

“Fuck, we lost Tormund again. I  _ hate _ drinking with him.”

Jon paid out their tab while Edd checked the bathrooms for a sign on Tormund. When they met back at the bar’s entrance, Edd was empty-handed and Jon was fuming.

“Damn fucker spent twenty dragons on drinks,” Jon snapped. His foul mood wasn’t helped by the clouds of smoke outside the door nor the misty rain still falling. A storm had passed through, the sidewalks damp and the street spotted with puddles. “Where the hell is he?”

“In an alley bragging about his member, no doubt.”

Jon scanned the narrow road, from the puke splatters on the cobblestones to the cars waiting at a red light down the street. Not a single ginger head was visible. He didn’t hear Tormund’s thunderous voice either. They were just deciding to split of and search when an explosion rocked the street. Glass shattered from half the windows of the four storey house on the corner. As it rained down onto the screaming crowd a burst of flames leapt from the opening.

“For fuck’s sake.” Edd was on his knees, rubbing his ears. “Does work have to follow us everywhere?”

“Call it in, Edd!”

Jon took off running.

People pushed and shoved and stumbled around him, heading away from the sweltering heat of the fire. At the end of the road, half a dozen men, covered in ashes and coughing, tumbled from the building’s front door. Jon hurried to them, taking a quick glance at each, but besides some minor smoke inhalation and a few cuts, they seemed fine.

“Who else is inside?” He stared up at the building, what seemed to be a converted old manse turned into rundown apartments. “The other tenants, how many?”

One man retched on the sidewalk, another continued to cough loudly. But a third seemed a bit more sensible. He rubbed at his dyed-blue beard and spat blood on the ground. 

“Just us, man. That’s all.”

Jon nodded, but his eyes still scanned the windows. The entire top floor was a blaze of red and orange flames. Another window cracked and fell to the sidewalk. He started to move the men across the street, directing the blue bearded one to call for fire rescue, when an older man, armored all in white, sprinted toward the building.

“Daenerys! Daenerys?”

Jon caught him at the curb. “You cannot go inside. It’s too dangerous, ser.”

But the knight didn’t seem to hear him. Panic lined his weathered face, his eyes full of fear. He tried to shove past Jon as another roar of flame leapt from the windows. And Jon… he squinted at the man, recognition dawning. Few knights were left in Westeros these days, but this man could be nothing but that in his stiff uniform and armored white.

“Ser Barristan? Of the royal guard?”

“Move aside, at once.”

“It’s too dangerous!”

Jon didn’t understand. He couldn’t fathom why a member of the royal family’s guard would ever be in such a place. Mostly, the queen and her son and daughter kept to the top of King’s Landing’s three towering hills. They never ventured down into the city unless it was for a parade or special event. Even then, they were each followed by a guard.

Tears ran down Ser Barristan’s face as he stared at the burning building. “Daenerys, gods, no, please…” Then he spotted the man with the blue beard and rage took over. “You! Where is she? What have you done, Neharais, you damn, useless cretin?”

“I didn’t do anything, man, come on!”

Ser Barristan smacked him right across the face, but Jon turned for the building. Daenerys was inside. For whatever reason, the royal princess had paid a visit here, and now she was trapped inside that inferno.

“Call the fire rescue,” Jon ordered the old knight. “Now!”

He pulled his sweater over his head, splashed it in one of the rain puddles and wrapped it around his nose and mouth as he dove into the smoking doorway. Behind him, he heard Ser Barristan’s shouts, but the sounds faded as he stepped into the dark hell of ash and smoke filling the corridor.

Jon bent over, his eyes watering, his skin breaking out in sweat. Most of the rooms he passed where tiny and foggy with gray smoke. The damage was minimal down here. He found no sign of her, nor any inhabitant until he crawled up to the third floor. He took a moment to catch his breath as much as he could on the landing, but overhead the charred, burning beams were creaking and groaning. Flames licked at their joints and roof insulation fell to the floor burning.

The ceiling between the third and fourth floors had been blown to pieces. Fire raged all the way up to the angled roof. Furniture from the top floor had fall, black and ashen, through the hole. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he pushed into the first room. A fallen, flaming couch blocked half the door, but the tables in the center of the room were covered in needles and vials of liquid. Drugs, he knew. A homegrown meth lab or something worse. An explosion like that could only be the result of a few things.

Eyes stinging, Jon took a short breath into his wet sweater and called out like he had on the floor below.

“Daenerys? Can anyone hear me? Make noise if you can!”

He said it over and over, checking that room, and then moving to the adjoining one as the smoke grew blacker and the air seemed to boil around him.

Then he hear it, a faint choked cough, and the clatter of something glass hitting the floor.

She was at the back of the room, buried under a mattress that had been overturned, her silver-gold hair gray with ash.

“H-help, I c-can’t…”

Daenerys broke off coughing and gagging. Her legs and waist were trapped under the mattress, her face pressed into a pillow as black as the walls. Jon crawled to her, taking in what held her down.

“I’ve got you. Shallow breaths, okay? I’m a firefighter. My name’s Jon. Here.”

Jon unwrapped his sweater from his face and placed it around hers. Most of it had dried, but his sweat had dampened enough to filter out some of the smoke. 

“Can you move? Are your legs hurt?”

Daenerys shook her head.

“Okay, stay still. I’m going to lift this off you and I need you to crawl forward for me when I do. Can you do that, Daenerys?”

She gave a tearful nod, and Jon lifted. The mattress wasn’t heavy, but the weight of wood and drywall and insulation atop it was. Daenerys pulled herself free and Jon collapsed beside her as smoke burned in his lungs. He squeezed her hand and urged her forward. Together, they crawled from the room and into the corridor. On the second landing, an ear-shattering crack rent the air, and part of the roof fell in.

Daenerys screamed, and panicked, but Jon kept a hold of her hand. 

“Look at me, hey, look here, Daenerys. Focus on me, okay? I need you to be brave for me right now.” He choked then, from the burning smoke in his eyes and lungs. But he squeezed Daenerys’s hand once more and turned her face to his. “We’re going to be fine. Just one more flight of stairs. Twelve steps and then the hall. That’s all. Can you do that for me, Daenerys? For Ser Barristan outside?”

Their eyes met, violet dark in the smoky blaze filling the world. “Yes.”

The last few stairs seemed an eternity. Jon helped Daenerys to her foot, and she clung to his waist, his undershirt soaked to his skin. They burst out of the doorway to a whirlwind of flashing lights and firefighters hurrying onto the scene. Ser Barristan was being restrained by several of them, but when he saw Jon and Daenerys, he pushed past the crew.

“Daenerys, princess! Thank the gods!”

She collapsed against him, and was rushed to an ambulance. Jon watched her go, coughing and hacking. His vision when dark then bright. Sharp pains shot up his thighs from his knees, and the world spun around him as he lost consciousness.


	2. DAENERYS I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took so much longer than I'd hoped! My apologies for the long wait. A short vacation turned into a pile of madness at work and then I got news that I'm moving next week instead of in September/October. Life's a little hectic at the moment.
> 
> So this chapter is Dany's POV. Mostly, I'll be rotating between her and Jon, but I expect I'll have a handful of others scattered throughout: Rhaegar, Ned, Ser Barristan, Tyrion, some of the other Stark kids, etc.
> 
> I don't know when the next update will be yet. I'm going to ballpark the end of July, to give me some time to move and unpack. After that, I'll have some sort of update scheduled sorted out.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“Even injured you look better than me.”

A blaze of white burned Dany’s eyes. As Tyrion Lannister’s voice continued to prattle on around her, she squeezed her eyes shut and winced. Her head felt like a throbbing speaker pounding out a heavy bass line. Her chest burned with every small breath. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. Even her nose ached, the fleshy tip raw and itchy warm.

“Your brother’s on his way back, I’ll have you know.” Tyrion patted her shoulder with his wide hand. “Moment he heard, Rhaegar cancelled his diplomatic visit in Pentos to care for his wayward baby sister.”

”I’m not—”

Dany’s sentence ended with a fit of coughing. She squinted at Tyrion, her eyes watering as the hospital room came into focus. The room was private and well-furnished. Monitors beeped on either side of her. Flourescent hospital lights glared against the white walls and bedding. Her advisor was seated on a chair at her bedside. His blond hair was a mess, the bangs standing on end. His mismatched eyes judged her worse than any words could, but Tyrion Lannister never had a shortage of those. He ran his hand through his hair.

“Wayward is putting it nicely.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was softer this time, thick and sore in her throat.

From the smoke, she realized. From the fire and explosion and another foolish, impulsive decision. Dany tried to sit up, but a strong hand forced her down. For half a second, she thought of Daario—that he’d come back for her after all—but it was Ser Barristan at her side. He looked like he hadn’t sleep in days. Most likely he hadn’t, given how ragged she ran him as he chased her across the Red Keep and half of King’s Landing. His familiar white armor was coated in gray ash instead of gleaming like a pearl.

“Easy, princess. You inhaled a lot of smoke, you need rest.”

Ser Barristan helped her raise the bed so that she was upright. He left and returned with a nurse who looked her over and checked her vitals. All the while, Tyrion sat beside her, tutting and frowning. After a cup of water and the nurse’s promise to return with her doctor, Dany felt strong enough to glare at her advisor.

“What?”

Tyrion propped his head on his hand. “I’m trying to decide if advising you is worth the paycheck at this point. I signed up to advise an intelligent, compassionate princess who might someday be the queen of Westeros, the last heir of the Targaryen dynasty. Not to babysit a meth head with impulse control problems and a danger kink.”

Ser Barristan stepped in this time. “Hold your tongue, Lannister. Princess Daenerys is no such thing.”

“She’s hardly a role model princess either. The press has all they need, no matter how much damage control I do this time. All of Westeros is talking about our rebellious princess with a drug addiction and a lust for bad boys.”

Tyrion stood and began to pace at the foot of her bed.

“We are running out of options, Daenerys. And this time, there’s no covering up everything. You were pulled from a burning building that police investigation has shown to be a homegrown meth lab. You’ve been seen more than once with the man being charged with running it, this Daario Naharis you’re so fond of. The only light of hope I see is that the doctors found no trace of drugs in your system beyond a bit of alcohol.”

_Daario._

He’d left her. That much she recalled as clear as a crystal vase. One moment, he’d been delighted to find her sneaking out to see him, the next everything had exploded. Thunder and fire ripped the ceiling to ash and overturned half the room. She’d been buried under all of it, and Daario…

For an instant, she’d looked up and spotted him through the darkening smoke. One glance and then he’d fled with his worthless friends. Her insides twisted. Dany sucked at her bottom lip, holding back the burning in her eyes.

After almost four months of diplomatic meetings across the Narrow Sea with her brother and a rushed semester of her final political science classes, Dany had been eager to return home. More so, to see Daario no matter how difficult it was to sneak away from the Red Keep. It wasn’t love, not like she’d thought it a year ago. But Daario was a freedom she’d never known, a life of invisibility she could never have. Seeing him was choice, a risk. Not even Ser Barristan could stop her for all his attempts.

Until last night when Daario had abandoned her to save himself. By rights, she should be dead, burnt and charred, ready for the grave.

Daario hadn’t helped her, but someone else had.

She could only recall a shadow of him now. Too panicked and frightened, his face had been hard to see through the ash in her eyes and the plumes of black smoke filling the air, but his hand had been strong and sure when it had grabbed hers. His voice steady as he coached her out of the building.

_Jon. He said his name was Jon._

“What happened to him?”

“He’ll be sent to one of the detention centers on the Wall, no doubt,” Ser Barristan said, unable to keep the triumph from his voice. “Or perhaps to one of the prisons beyond it, if they give him a long enough sentence.”

“Not Daario. The man who rescued me. Jon.”

Her sworn shield and advisor exchanged a look. They seemed to have already come to some sort of agreement concerning that topic, too.

“He’s here,” Tyrion said, his tone careful. “Severe smoke inhalation, more so than yours. He took the worst of it on the way out. They have him in intensive care for the night, I believe, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“I’d like to see him, to thank him.”

“No, that’s out of the question.”

“Out of the—and why is that, Tyrion? He saved my life. I should be allowed to thank him, if nothing else.”

Tyrion scowled. “Yes, this... Jon Snow. The press is having a field day about him. Having the pair of you seen together, in whatever capacity, will not serve. Besides, I doubt the man wants his name and face all over the news. Paparazzi are already staking out ever firehouse in the city trying to find out who he is.”

Dany frowned. “Staking out? But if they don’t know anything about him…”

Ser Barristan cleared his throat and scooped up a tablet on her side table. “Princess, the on scene news crews did interviews with witnesses. One appears to be a… colleague of Snow’s.”

He clicked a few buttons and handed her the tablet, a short video already running. It was a local news outlet, the King’s Landing Report.

“One eye witness on the scene claims to know Princess Daenerys’s rescuer, though was too inebriated to provide a full name. Still, local firefighter and Flea Bottom resident, Tormund Giantsbane was eager to comment about Snow’s heroic rescue of our royal princess.”

A giant ginger man appeared on screen, a microphone held to his face. He was grinning widely, and swaying on his feet. Behind him, the smoking building was visible, firefighters rushing past as emergency lights flashed white and red across the cobblestones.

“Damn Snow’s always gotta save the girl. It’s that pussytongue o’his on the hunt. Har, not even on duty and he’s playing the hero better than any of us. Damn firefighters.”

The man belched, beat his chest with his fists and gave a wild laughter. After that, his comments descended quickly into drunken hollering, then chanting “Snow” until half the drunks in the street had joined in. Everything else he had to say was bleeped out for profanity, but Dany got the gist of it. On screen, the clip switched back to the two reporters at a newsroom desk.

“Little else of Princess Daenerys’s mysterious savior is known, but our team is on the case. We will keep you updated as information comes in on his identity. Meanwhile, our wild princess is currently hospitalized for injuries sustained during the explosion, but is expected to make a full recovery. Both the hospital and the royal family have declined to comment at this time, but it is of note that Prince Rhaegar has canceled the rest of his visit to Pentos for the Narrow Sea Trade Agreement summit. He is expected back in the capital on Thursday morning.” He turned to his fellow reporter. “Ted, can we expect this dangerous streak to continue for Princess Daenerys?”

Ted the newscaster smiled. “It’s hard to say what she’ll do next, but I think it is safe to say we’ll have plenty to discuss. After Prince Viserys’s downward spiral, the royal family has seen more than its fair share of scandal. Princess Daenerys seems intent on continuing that trend.”

“Yes, that has certainly been the case in recent years. Prince Rhaegar had his own fair share of scandal twenty years ago, as you’ll recall.”

“After the death of his wife and children, though, gods rest their souls. A more reasonable breakdown given those circumstances. But Prince Viserys, and now Princess Daenerys… after the madness that claimed King Aerys, it almost seems as if they’re cursed to fits of insanity. Her Majesty appears to be the only Targaryen left fit to lead and represent our country, and with no prospective heirs from either of her living children, the Targaryen monarchy may finally be burning itself out.”

The first newscaster turned back to the screen. “More on that discussion this evening, Ted. We’ll have a panel starting at six o’clock to discuss Princess Daenerys’s latest misadventure, the implications of what has been discovered so far at the fire, and how this will affect the royal family and perhaps our reckless princess’s future position within it. Stay tuned!”

The screen went dark. Dany almost threw the device across the room in disgust. Ser Barristan set it aside. He claimed Tyrion’s empty chair.

“They haven’t stopped talking since the news broke,” he told her. “Queen Rhaella is… displeased. Concerned about your well being, of course, but it’s near impossible for her to come here without turning this into a never-ending press nightmare.”

“I’ve been working on a cover story for why you were there, as best I can,” Tyrion added. “Given your apparent abhorrence for making thoughtful decisions, though, I wonder if it’s worth the effort.”

_If I’m worth the hassle, you mean. Perhaps I’m not._

She’d had more sensational news stories about herself in the last three years than her mother had in thirty. More than Rhaegar, too, after his wife, Elia, and two small children were killed in a plane crash on a stormy flight home to Elia’s beloved Dorne. They’d crashed off the coast near Storm’s End, the wreckage and their bodies coming in with the tide. Twenty-three years had passed since then, but Rhaegar had never been the same.

Her second brother, Viserys had been a fearful drunk and half-mad when he’d taken his turn in the news. These days he was locked away in a mental institution. He’d became half the monster their father had been with every intention of surpassing him.

But Dany had always told herself to be better. As a girl, growing up with Viserys’s spirals and fits of rage and then Rhaegar’s melancholy silences, she’d had no problems standing out. Bright, happy, bubbly. She’d been everything a princess ought to be, until she wasn’t. Until Viserys lost his mind and Mother went cold and Rhaegar treated her more as a desperate replacement daughter than his baby sister.

Every hope for the Targaryen legacy had suddenly been placed on her. Speculation about her marriage prospects, what she wore every moment of her life, where she went to school, who her friends were, if she was as beautiful as her mother or perfect enough to fit the role of princess. It had all been enough to crumble anyone, and she’d been no different under those expectations. Instead of a diamond, the pressure turned her to dust.

Overnight, her name and face became breaking news.

At seventeen, found in a car with a drunk driver behind the wheel.

Her impulsive runaway with that Dothraki khal the summer before college. Drogo had been no fit consort for a princess, but he’d offered an escape from the royal spotlight, however fleeting.

On a visit to Meereen during her second semester of college, photos of herself and her friend, Irri, kissing at a strip club had surfaced. More viral videos and pictures of herself at college parties had followed.

Then Daario had come into her life last year. At first he’d been only a simple dealer, a man she could buy milk of the poppy and other softer drugs from. Just a little something to dull her mind from time to time, to take away all the stresses of royal life. He’d been into harder dealing, but she’d never thought much of it. Staring at his silly dyed beard, his twinkling golden tooth, those bright blue eyes that always seemed to be smiling had been easier. She’d had countless scandals in magazines with him, pictures of them together, drinking or smoking. One of them kissing, his hands under her skirt. Some from raves she’d had no business at as a royal princess.

And now this.

Mother would be furious, her sad violet eyes dark with shame and regret. She’d say little and expect more. And Rhaegar… her sweet brother. He’d gather her up in his arms, hug her like the daughter he’d lost and pretended she was. Then he’d scold her in every way their mother would not.

“I won’t see Daario anymore.”

“I dare say you can’t unless you intend to spend time at the Wall.”

Dany adjusted her oxygen mask back over her face. “And I _will_ see Jon Snow. I wish to thank the only man brave enough to run into a burning building to find me. Even if it’s just a visit to his room before I leave. He deserves that much, Tyrion.”

Her advisor considered her. “Fine. One visit, if he agrees. I’ll check with the nursing staff. I doubt they’ll allow him visitors until he’s out of intensive care, at any rate.”

Dany nodded. “Thank you. For all of this, both of you. Do you know anything more about him?”

“About Jon Snow?” Tyrion shrugged. “No. He seems familiar, but I can’t place his face. A thousand other illegitimate boys in the North have the same name, so records are near useless.”

Ser Barristan’s answer surprised them both. “He’s Lord Stark’s son, if I’m not mistaken. The dark hair and gray eyes… I haven’t seen Lord Stark in a number of years, but I remember his face. Jon has his look.”

Tyrion nodded. “That explains it. I suppose I have met him, though I was rather drunk at the time. He was... fourteen, perhaps. Actually, we were both a bit drunk as I recall. His wolf pup tried to eat me.”

“His _wolf?_ ”

Tyrion grinned at Dany’s surprise. “Yes, all the Stark children have them. Has it truly been that long since you’ve gone on the annual visit to the North?”

Dany shrugged. She’d visited Dorne and the Stormlands near every year, but most of the other kingdoms’ visits were during her semesters away from Westeros. She hadn’t been north of the Riverlands since she was a young teenager. If she’d ever met Lord Stark’s children, she didn’t remember any of them.

Tyrion sighed. “I’ll go speak with the nurses about a visit with Snow _if_ you promise to rest.” Concern lit his eyes, despite his exasperated tone. “You scare us too much and too often, Daenerys. Just stick a knife in my heart if you’re this desperate to make it stop.”

As Tyrion left, Ser Barristan lowered her bed. “He’s right, you know, rude as he can be about it. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified as when that building… promise me you won’t take a risk like that again. I’ve sworn to protect your life with my own, Daenerys, and I have since you were born, but…”

His eyes sparkled with tears. Ser Barristan cleared his throat and looked away. Somehow, his fear and worry cut into her like nobody else’s could. Ser Grandfather was the name Daario had given him. A mocking name to him, but to Dany it had been wonderful in its truth. She’d never known her grandparents, had scarce known her father, but Ser Barristan had always been faithful at her side. Dany nodded, and squeezed his hand.

“I won’t, I promise.”

 

* * *

 

After staying overnight and being checked over half a hundred times, Dany was given directions for recovery and sent on her way. Together with Ser Barristan and Tyrion they stopped on the second floor the next morning to visit Jon Snow’s room. At Tyrion’s instructions, her rescuer had been given his own room so that her visit could be isolated from prying eyes.

“They’re keeping him another day,” Tyrion told her when they arrived outside the private room, the shutters closed over the observation window. “He did the hero act right, at least, breathing enough smoke to make your lungs look pristine. Very Stark-like.”

Dany gave him a sour look and knocked.

An older man greeted them, his face plain and lined with exhaustion. Jon’s father, she assumed, though she could not recall much of Jon Snow’s face or Lord Eddard Stark. A burst of guilt filled her chest as Lord Stark looked them over. She’d pulled him away from his province, his duties and family, because his son had risked his life for hers. The man’s bushy beard was salt and pepper gray, some patches of white blooming along the jaws. He looked them over then waved them in.

“Thank you for letting us see him, Lord Stark.”

He snorted like an uncouth sailor. “Lord Stark? I’m Davos Seaworth. Chief firefighter in Flea Bottom.”

He shook hands with Tyrion and Ser Barristan, then stumbled through a clumsy bow for her.

“It’s an honor, Princess Daenerys, though…” Davos glanced at the bed across the room. “Rather wish he hadn’t, damn fool. He’s supposed to be on holiday to see his family. Begging your pardon, princess. Getting Jon to take time off is worse than pulling teeth.”

Guilt bloomed fresh and hard in her chest again.

“My apologies, Ser Davos. I wish the circumstances had been different, but I am very grateful Jon Snow was here.”

Davos nodded. “He’s good at what he does. Bit too good perhaps.”

“We’ll be outside, princess.” Ser Barristan and Tyrion stepped into the hall and closed the door.

Dany approached the bed and found Jon Snow in a similar state to the one she’d woken up in the night before. His nose tip wasn’t sunburnt by the fire like hers, but he had a few small cuts on his cheek and an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He was handsome now that she had the chance to see him without smoke and fear. His hair was a dark cascade of curls brushed back from his face and ears.A trimmed beard covered his cheeks and neck.

Davos took a seat beside him and shook his shoulder.

“Jon, she’s here to see you.”

A groggy grunt left Jon’s mouth. He shifted under Davos’s firm shake, then jolted awake, coughing a deep, heaving rattle that made Dany’s chest hurt.

“What? Is there a call?”

Like herself, Jon’s voice was hoarse from the smoke. He sounded far worse than she did.

Davos snorted again. “Hardly. You can’t work from the hospital.” He glanced at Dany. “The princess is here to see you before she leaves.”

Jon coughed again, took a slow breath, then removed his mask. His head turned toward her, his gray eyes squinting at her. They were startling and piercing, a gray as dark as the smoke that had almost choked them both. A flush crept up Dany’s neck as he watched her.

“You’re all right?”

She couldn’t stop her disbelieving laugh. “Me? I’ve already been released,” Dany told him. “And _you_ are supposed to be on holiday, according to Ser Davos.”

Jon scowled. “I told him next month would be better. Not my fault he didn’t listen.”

“Didn’t—” Davos glared at him. “If you weren’t in a hospital bed right now…”

“You’d fire me? Force me to take a holiday?” Jon coughed. “Already on holiday. Best way to spend it, right here.”

Dany smiled at the easy banter. She took a seat beside Jon and across from Davos as the older man rolled his eyes.

“Well, now you get a paid holiday _and_ medical leave until you’re cleared to return. A good month without your heroic antics will be nice.”

“That’s—”

A fit of coughing cut Jon’s rebuttal off. Davos pressed the oxygen mask back to his face, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as he coached Jon through his breathing. Dany watched the pair in silence. From Davos’s fatherly affection to Jon’s watering eyes bright with pain. After a few minutes, Jon relaxed back into the bed again.

“It’s for the best,” Davos said. “Paparazzi’s staking out all the firehouses thanks to Tormund’s big mouth. Less they see of you for a few weeks, the better.”

Jon gave a weak nod, then looked back at Dany. “Sorry, talking isn’t the best idea right now.”

“You don’t need to apologize. You saved my life, Jon Snow.” Dany hesitated before reached out for his hand on the bed. His fingers were curled into a fist, so she cupped his warm hand between both of hers. “Thank you. What you did—”

“It’s my job.”

“Even on holiday?”

Davos looked from Jon to Dany, then stood up. He busied himself in the corner pouring water. All the while, Jon watched her. His hand uncurled in hers, gently easing his fingers around her right palm.

“Fires don’t stop for holidays. I was in the right place at the right time, that’s all, princess. I’m glad you’re okay.”

There was something about him that Dany couldn’t quite place as he squeezed her hand. A word that fluttered around her head and didn’t want to land where she could grasp it. His lips quirked in a soft smile as Davos returned with two cups of water. A flickering spark lit up inside her like a firefly in the night.

“Drink, both of you.”

Dany wasn’t used to strangers giving her orders, but Jon took the water without complaint. Davos’s smile was warm as he passed her the second cup.

 _Genuine_.

That’s what it was. Jon was refreshing, open and genuine. Not like Daario putting up a charming front, nor the facade of stoicism her mother had adopted in public. Nothing about him seemed false. He gave her an exasperated glance as Davos muttered about Jon’s penchant for reckless rescues.

“You’ll return to the North then? To see your family?”

Jon nodded. “Tonight, maybe. If they’ll let me out.”

“Tomorrow or I’m tying you to that bed.”

“Davos, I’ve had worse. I’m fine.”

Davos gave another snort and took their empty cups. “Don’t need to remind me about that. Number of damn days I’ve had to sit beside your hospital bed tells that story.”

“Worse? I guess a firefighter does have a lot of adventures.”

Dany watched Jon’s hand flex in hers, felt the dampness on her palm as it began to sweat. She ought to leave. To head into the hall and back to the Red Keep where her mother and brother awaited her. She’d thanked him like she set out to do, but Jon’s weak laugh kept her seated.

“Aye, most aren’t quite as exciting as yesterday.”

“No? I’d have thought—”

Behind her, Tyrion poked his head in from the hall. “Princess, the car is here. We need to go. Quickly.”

As Tyrion shut the door, a weight seemed to settled onto her. Dany made to stand, but Jon’s hand stayed with hers, his thumb rubbing over the back of her palm.

“Be safe,” Jon told her. “Thank you for letting me know you’re fine.”

“Thanks to you. You’re…”

Tyrion rapped his knuckles on the door as a warning. Jon let go then, his hand dropping back to the clean, white linens. Little ticklish pops ran across her palm at the sudden absence. Dany turned toward the door, then hesitated.

“Perhaps, I can thank you properly sometime,” she said, ignoring the discouraging voice in her head that sounded far too much like Tyrion. “When we’re both healed. Lunch or dinner, your choice. Maybe while you’re still in the North or when you return to King’s Landing. If… if you’d like.”

Jon seemed surprised. “Sure. That’d be… yeah, that’d be nice. Gives me time to bore you with the reality of being a firefighter.”

“I rather doubt you’ll bore me, but thank you, Jon Snow. I’ll be in touch.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, saying they could see one another again, and actually finding a way to subtly arrange her life to make it possible, were two entirely different things. Dany returned to the Red Keep to find the servants whispering and her mother shut away in her chambers.

For two days, she was confined to her own rooms to rest and heal before Queen Rhaella summoned her to a private breakfast in the queen’s sitting room. Her mother was already dressed in a fitted, conservative gown, her hair styled into a long braid down her back. As tea was poured and the meal set before them, Rhaella appraised Dany.

“We’ll have to touch up your nose until that redness fades,” the Queen told her. “And something for that rasp in your voice as well, dear.”

Dany tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. Having news outlets and social media critiquing her appearance was simple to ignore, but her mother was another matter. They ate in silence, but Dany tasted little of what she put into her mouth. Ser Barristan stood just inside the shadows of the arched doorway. Her mother’s own guards were stationed around the room, from window to window. The Queen said nothing else of the incident, made no remarks beyond that sharp line of disappointment in her eyes.

Their eggs and crisped tomatoes were replaced with warm, buttery croissants. Rhaella ate hers without glancing at Dany.

“Mother, I—”

“I don’t want to hear apologies, Daenerys. Words are wind, and yours mean very little at this point.” Rhaella chewed and swallowed. “You are confined to the Red Keep for the time being. Until I can decide what else to do with you since I cannot trust you to make choices that reflect well on yourself and the crown.”

“I won’t see him anymore. Daario or any of them. It was stupid, I know that.”

“Then why did you do it?”

_Because Daario at least pretended to love me, regardless of what else he was._

Dany folded her napkin in her lap and fell silent. Before an awkward silence could fill the room, the far door burst open. Her brother rushed in, his own sworn shield, Ser Arthur Dayne, a step behind. Both men towered over herself, a contrast of her brother’s pale hair and skin and Ser Arthur’s tan complexion and dark hair.

“Dany, gods, when I heard—”

Rhaegar scooped her right off her chair. His hug was exactly what she needed, no matter how overbearing it was. Dany pressed her face into his shirt, breathed in the sharp musk of his aftershave and the piney scent of his soap. He set her down on her feet, a head taller than herself and twice her age. She’d been a frighteningly late baby for her mother. Rhaegar was past forty now compared to her twenty-two years, his silver-gold hair threaded with gray, soft lines at the corners of his eyes.

“What happened? Are you hurt? They said you were in an _explosion_.”

“Rhaegar, that’s enough. Sit, join us.”

Their mother stood and Ser Arthur dropped to a knee. “My Queen.”

She waved for him to rise, and Ser Arthur joined Ser Barristan by the archway. They sat once Queen Rhaella had reclaimed her seat, her sharp eyes taking in Rhaegar’s worried affection.

“She’s fine, Rhaegar. A foolish girl, but fine besides. And _you_ should have stayed for the summit. That trade agreement has been your life’s work. To simply abandon it because of Daenerys’s recklessness…”

“I’d heard she was in the hospital after an explosion,” Rhaegar said, his hand holding Dany’s tight as he looked her over. “What happened?”

Rhaella plucked a grape from the fruit bowl and chewed it slowly. Dany was forced to explain, her raspy voice meek as she talked to her plate. When she was finished, Rhaegar was a twisted mixture of fury and disbelief.

“What were you thinking? That Naharis character is a sinkhole of crime. If I’ve warned you once, I’ve warned you a thousand times to stay away from him.”

“I know.”

“You’ve acted like a child, like some wild teenager. Dany.” Rhaegar shook his head and turned to their mother. “And the press?”

“As expected, given the circumstances. They’ve taken quite an interest in the man who rescued her, though they don’t know his name at present.”

“Who?”

“Jon Snow, Lord Stark’s bastard son.” Queen Rhaella cleaned her fingers on her napkin. “I’m confining your sister to the Red Keep indefinitely. Until we can figure something out, until the story dies down some.”

Dany expected Rhaegar to nod in agreement, but an odd, strained look had crossed his face at the mention of her rescuer. As quick as lightning his face smoothed out to calmness.

“We can’t lock her away, Mother. For a few days, a week while she recovers, yes. But indefinitely will only create more rumors. After this, Daenerys needs to be seen in a better light. The press works both ways. Charity galas for some of the smaller organizations we support. Perhaps the Reeds’ orphanage event in a few weeks at Greywater Watch. The soon we set her on the right track before the public, the quicker this will blow over.”

“ _If_ there isn’t another incident.”

They both stared at Dany, waiting. She flinched at her mother’s piercing stare, but accepted the chance at freedom. Lord Reed wasn’t as far North as Winterfell, but it might be close enough to fulfill her promise to Jon Snow. And it would get her far away from here, too.

“I’ll do better,” Dany told her, hoping she was right as Rhaegar nodded in approval. “Attending Lord Reed’s orphanage fundraiser would be lovely.”


	3. JON II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moving is complete! Mostly... -stares at miscellaneous boxes in the dining room- Shh, we aren't acknowledging you this month. Later, perhaps, if you behave.
> 
> So back to Jon POV this time and introducing (most of) the Stark family. I also may or may not have had too much fun (and spent too much time) creating newspaper names for a modern Westeros. I'm essentially molding various religious factions and spymasters/spy networks into newspapers and news outlet, because why not.
> 
> So next update should be around the end of the month. I'm aiming for three weeks since I'm still getting settled and work's always a bit hectic at one of my jobs this time of year. Once September hits, I should have a more regular update schedule.
> 
> Thanks for still hanging around and enjoy!

Dawn and dusk blended together on the drive north. Jon slept in bursts. First passing out with King’s Landing’s dome of lights eclipsing the pink dawn, waking to muddy flashes of the raging rivers and towering bridges that dominated the riverlands, and again as a bruised dusk faded on the swampy horizon of the Neck. 

By the time Jon woke for good, darkness had crept up around them. A void of black pressed into the sides of the SUV. After King’s Landing it was almost suffocating, like the vehicle had been swallowed down the gullet of a great beast, taking Jon, Robb, and Margaery with it. His good sister was at the wheel, his brother seated beside her, fiddling with the radio and picking up only static. The further north they drove, the less modern comforts there were. Only Winterfell provided an expanse of modernity amongst a thousand miles of rugged wilderness. 

Jon yawned as Robb cursed the lack of radio stations. From behind him, Grey Wind whined softly, and Ghost leaned forward to rest his head on Jon’s shoulder. The two wolves were almost too large for the back half of the vehicle, but with the rear seats folded down they managed to fit. Overhead, the moon was luminous like a wedge of lemon. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive the rest?”

“Robb, I used to drive from Highgarden to Winterfell to see you. That’s farther than this. Besides, neither of you can drive right now.”

His brother sighed and raised Margaery’s hand to his lips. “I know, but if you need a break—”

“She’ll pull over and rest.” Jon rubbed his face, gave Ghost a pat, then leaned forward. “Where are we?”

“About half an hour from the Torrhen’s Square exit.” Robb twisted to look him over. “How you feeling, hero?”

“Shut up.” 

They had another hour and a half before Winterfell’s halo of lights would fill the distant moors and the western mountains would cut their snowy peaks against the coal black sky. Jon leaned back against Ghost’s snowy neck and let the wolf nuzzle his ear. But Robb and Margaery weren’t keen to let him fall silent now that he was coherent.

“Best tell the press that before they figure out who you are.” Margaery’s green eyes found his in the rearview mirror. “You saved a princess like some magnificent knight from a fairytale. Our chivalrous, gallant Jon Snow. If I wasn’t already married, I’d have no choice but to court you.”

She was only half-mocking him, Jon knew. Robb grinned at him.

“Are you going to start wearing a sword like the royal guards? Or shiny armor like you’re heading to a tourney? Oh, I bet he’s been dreaming about her beauty, her  _ grace _ , her naked—”

“I bet you shut your mouth if you want to keep it.”

“Is he blushing again?” Margaery whipped her head around to admire his scowl. “You’re so pouty, Jon Snow. You got to  _ touch _ royalty. A gorgeous princess sat vigil at your bedside, weeping for your recovery.”

“She did not unless she’s secretly Davos.”

That earned him a hearty laugh from his brother and sister-in-law, but the teasing didn’t end there. Since their arrival at Pycelle’s Memorial Hospital to check him out that morning, Robb and Margaery’s questions about Princess Daenerys had been nonstop when he was awake. Somehow, despite both of them being the children of high lords, they couldn’t recall ever meeting the queen’s youngest child. Jon hadn’t met anyone in the royal family until yesterday. Their father had always made a point of keeping him far away during the Targaryens’ annual visit to the North, no doubt at his wife’s insistence. Catelyn Stark had never been fond of him. Parading his illegitimate existence before the royal family would have been shameful, at best.

“You still haven’t said what she’s like,” Robb clicked through radio stations, still finding only wavering static. He shut the radio off. “Beautiful, obviously, she’s been on the news enough to see that.”

“She’s my freebie,” Margaery added. “Robb’s is—”

“Hush, wife. I need at least one secret from my heroic brother. At least until he’s got a few of his own to barter. Besides, Jon’ll never tell us about her if we start on that.” Robb turned in his seat. “So?”

Jon flushed at Robb’s stare. Daenerys was breathtaking. Even a blind man wouldn’t be able to deny that. He’d known it in some abstract sense as he’d guided her from the burning house two days past. But waking to her beside his hospital bed, with her silver-gold hair braided, her violet eyes earnest and kind, even her nose tip adorably red from the fire’s heat was something else. And when she’d smiled at him, and laughed at his flimsy, self-deprecating jokes; the way her soft hand had felt as she’d grabbed his…

A shiver ran through Jon that had nothing to do with the North’s chill.

“Someone’s got a crush.”

“I don’t even know her.”

“That’s why it’s a crush and not something more,” Robb said. “She made an impression, at least. So?”

“So what?”

“Don’t pretend you’re daft. Are you going to see her again?”

Jon snorted. Daenerys had mentioned it, of course. Davos’s knowing smiles had been more than enough commentary about it afterward. He’d thought of little else since in his waking moments, of sharing a meal with her warm smile and soft eyes, of talking more. Perhaps earning another sweet laugh like he had in his hospital room. But it would never happen. She hadn’t even taken down his phone number to contact him.

A royal princess had others priorities besides dinner with some northern bastard, even if he had saved her life. Not to mention whatever she’d been doing in a home grown drug lab with a number of unsavory people. Davos had read the officially newspaper report on that matter, straight from the  _ Glass Candle Times _ and the  _ Red Prophet. _ Both were far more reputable and less gossipy than whatever junk  _ The King’s Landing Report _ or  _ Mockingbird Daily  _ had stirred up. 

Daenerys’s offer had been a lady’s courtesy, nothing more.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I did my job to save her, that’s all. It’s done.”

“Then why do you keep getting all doe-eyed whenever she’s mentioned?”

Margaery turned Robb around in his seat with a firm hand on his jaw.

“Leave Jon be. If he wants to brood and daydream about a lovely princess, then let him. Gods know, he needs to fantasize about someone. If you’d like,” she added to Jon, “I can share a few fantasies of mine.”

“In case you’ve forgotten how sex works.”

Jon kicked the backs of both their seats.

True night had fallen by the time Winterfell’s glow turned the sky an icy blue. Instead of heading into the small city’s twisting labyrinth of avenues and streets, Margaery took the exit for the western highway that led out to the mountains. Jon rolled his window down as darkness crept back in around them. A chilly wind stung his cheeks and eyes, ruffling a few curls that had pulled loose from his hair tie. He sighed at the feeling, at the cold air in his lungs and the vast landscape surrounding them. Healing would be much easier up here.

It had been far too long since he’d been home.

Winterfell Castle was on the outskirts of the city, resting amongst the foothills of the mountains, at the edge of a thick wood. Once a great stone fortress that had covered several square miles, the castle had been downsized as the city had grown up on its eastern edges. These days, Winterfell Castle held a main keep covering twenty acres, including the Starks’ beloved godswood that covered a third of the land. Beneath it all the crypts of their ancestors stretched out like an ant colony, marking the castle’s boundaries.

Margaery pulled to a stop at the southern gate. Ser Rodrik took one glance into the car with a flashlight and waved their identification cards off.

“Well, well, Robb and Jon the mischief makers, home again. Welcome back, boys, and you as well, Lady Margaery. I’ll call ahead to let your father know you’ve arrived.”

“Thanks, Ser Rodrik.”

Their old instructor smiled and opened the gates. They rumbled along the gravel driveway, following the dark stone wall that kept the godswood in check to their right. Just above its crenellations, Jon could see the wild tangles of branches, the great pale weirwood stretching out vast and towering above everything else. Cold earth filled his lungs, fresh pine and sentinels. Everything that southern Westeros lacked was pungent and heady in the air.

“Still think living in King’s Landing is a good idea?”

Jon ignored Robb as the road curved away from the iron gates of the godswood and looped up to the wide sweeping stairs of Winterfell Castle. At once, four howling wolves burst into sight. One black, two brown, one gray. They surrounded the SUV, whining and howling, as the back hatch rose up. Ghost and Grey Wind leapt free, and the pack’s dance began. Snapping, sniffing, howling, and tumbling about in the dirt, the six wolves reunited. As Robb, Jon, and Margaery climbed out, the Stark children appeared on the stairs. 

_ All except Arya. _

He missed his youngest sister more then than he ever had before. Of the five Starks, and despite his close bond and age with Robb, he and Arya had been inseparable from the day she’d learned to crawl. But little Arya was in Braavos, and not quite so little anymore at seventeen. Instead Jon found himself facing three younger siblings twice as big as the ones he remembered. Rickon was first, vaulting down the stairs three at a time, and stumbling right into Robb like a newborn colt of wobbly legs.

“You’re here! Ew, get off, Robb.” Their baby brother’s voice cracked like wood splitting. “ _ Jon! _ ”

Rickon launched himself into Jon’s arms, grinning. He’d grown more than Jon had expected. As Jon pulled away, he found Rickon’s head of auburn curls at eye level. He wasn’t quite as tall as himself and Robb, but at twelve he was already too damn close.

“Did you really save the princess? That’s what Bran said. Do you want to go to the motocross track with me tomorrow? Nobody else will ride since Arya’s gone. Oh, and when we go camping, can we—”

“Let him breathe, gods, Rickon.” Sansa tugged Rickon away. She smiled at Jon and hugged him tight. Jon grunted in surprise; his younger sister had never hugged him by choice before. “It’s good to see you, Jon.”

“Thanks, you got taller.” Sansa was taller than everyone except Bran it seemed, leggy but beautiful. All of her childhood snobbishness seemed to have evaporated. “Is everyone taller than us now, Robb?”

“Arya’s not,” Rickon said. He stood up on his tiptoes suddenly eye level with Jon. “I’m taller than her now, too!”

“It’s the heels for me,” Sansa said, carefully lifting one leg to show off the towering wedge attached to her foot. “All the rage at university right now.”

Bran hugged him next, well past six foot, his auburn hair cut short above his ears, a pair of thick rimmed black glasses perched on his nose. His face had thinned, but his eyes were still bright with mischief and secrets. Arya’s wolf, Nymeria, continued to circle them, sniffing and whining.

“Sorry, girl, Arya’s not with us.”

She growled, bit at Grey Wind’s ears, and raced off for the godswood. Her brothers charged after her as the castle’s grand door opened again, spilling golden light down the steps. Jon froze at the sight of his father. Ned Stark hadn’t aged much since Jon had last seen him in person. Still he had the same dark, straight hair, a little streaked with gray, but cropped short and neat. His gray eyes were tired, the corners wrinkled with smile lines. His beard was thicker and more gray than brown, but his smile warmed Jon from head to foot.

“Is this what the commotion’s all about?” Father gave Robb a quick squeeze, kissed Margaery’s cheek, and then stopped before Jon. His hands took Jon carefully, but firmly, by the shoulders. “Let me look at you. Another son with a beard, is it?”

Father examined him closely, one long sweep of his body (no doubt for injuries), then a closer look at his face, from his trimmed beard to his dark curls knotted at the back of his head. His finger brushed the newest scar that marked Jon’s left eye. A souvenir from a raging apartment fire down in Fela Bottom half a year past. As always, Jon felt overwhelmed with love, yet like half a shadow on the wall under his father’s gaze. Father loved him. He’d never doubted that, no matter their differences or disagreements in recent years. But somehow, Ned always seemed to be searching when he looked at him. For what, or  _ whom _ , Jon could only guess.

“At least mine all connects.” Jon glanced at Robb’s shoddy mustache that remained stubbornly disconnected from his red beard.

Robb glared at him.

Father laughed and pulled him in for a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re home, Jon.”

Jon hugged him back, resting his face in the curve of his father’s neck. When they broke apart, he found Catelyn Stark watching them from the stairs. Her frown and cold eyes were nothing new. Neither was their disappearance the moment Ned turned to face her.

As the rest of the family headed inside, exclaiming and laughing, Ned walked at Jon’s side to his wife. Jon gave her a small nod of greeting.

“Lady Stark, thank you for having me.”

“Of course, I daresay, it’s been quite some time.”

Catelyn’s accusatory eyes were offset by her pleasant smile. Enough to appease Ned for the time being, but Jon might have gone right back to being seven-years-old, hiding from her wroth after Theon, their foster brother, had set the blame for a prank at Jon’s feet. He did his best to hold her gaze until she turned for the house, calling after Rickon, who was sprinting down the entrance hall.

Jon and Ned stepped into the house last, the heavy oak door thudding closed behind them. Everything was just as Jon recalled it from his last visit. The same tapestries hung on the dark wooden walls; the vases were spotless and gleamed in the light of the crystal chandelier. Old ancestral suits of armor lined the hall, and the family’s ancient sword hung upon the far wall backed by a carved wooden shield of the Stark family crest.

“Nothing ever changes here,” Jon said, trying to lighten the mood. 

His father’s grim face watched his wife’s retreating form. “No, the North stays true.” 

After that, the evening was better. As Jon, Robb, and Margaery had plates of dinner leftovers stacked before them, his siblings talked nonstop. Fortunately, Catelyn turned in earlier for the night, leaving Jon, his father, and siblings to have the run of the ground floor. They ate and talked, catching up on Sansa’s first year away from home at Gold Rose University, Bran’s continuing ambition to become an investigative journalist, and Rickon’s latest wild hobby of motocross.

“And then, and  _ then _ ,” Rickon waved his arms about, twisting and ducking as he bobbed around the center of the room, “boom! Micah went sailing off his bike—musta been forty feet—and his engine  _ exploded _ . Arya near ripped our ears off!”

“And Shaggy your throat,” Father remarked. He sighed at his youngest’s enthusiasm for danger, and shook his head at Jon. “I’ve about given up teaching this one safety and caution. Doesn’t even make it in one ear so it can ooze out the other.”

“It was just a bit of fun, Dad.” Rickon rolled his eyes, turned to drop back to his spot on the sofa, and tripped over Shaggydog and Summer sprawled out on the rug. He went down in a heap of fur and chattering wolves. “Hey, no teeth! Not fair!”

The two wolves made easy work of him. While Summer pinned his legs, Shaggydog dropped his weight onto Rickon’s chest and licked his face until it shined.

“Bran, get your wolf off me.”

“Think he’s quite happy there, actually.” Bran stood and stretched. “I should get to bed. My interview is at nine o’clock sharp.”

“Interview?”

“With Ser Brynden,” Bran explained as he snapped his fingers for Summer to stand. “It’s only an internship at  _ The Weirdwood Chronicles _ , but they’re the  _ best _ . I don’t want to oversleep.”

“You’ll do great,” Sansa assured him. “We’ve spent the last two days going over every possible question, preparing multiple responses. You’ll get it.”

Bran made a round for hugs, stopping at Jon last. He squeezed him tight, then tried to lift him off the ground with his new height advantage and failed. Jon chuckled and lifted Bran instead. A slow burn in his lungs made him set Bran down quickly. 

“Strength isn't all about height, little brother.”

“One day you won’t be solid muscle,” Bran promised. “Then I’ll swing  _ you _ around the room.”

“As long as you don’t break any furniture this time,” Ned said. “That last time…”

“It was just a concussion,” Brain said, like he hadn’t ended up in the hospital and near comatose. He’d been a tiny boy then, always begging Robb and Jon to swing him around until his feet lifted from the ground. They’d gotten a bit too bold that last time and the past-time was now banned. “Goodnight.”

Summer followed Bran from the room. Father stood then as Rickon yawned from under Shaggydog’s black fur.

“I think it’s time you got to bed as well,” Ned told his youngest. “No arguments.”

But Rickon did argue. It was only Sansa’s diplomatic intervention, and Jon’s promise to still be there in the morning, that convinced him to go upstairs. Margaery snagged Sansa under the guise of discussing her first year in the Reach as a young college woman, leaving Jon alone with Robb and their father.

“Whiskey?”

Robb headed right for the cabinet on his elbow crutches, and pulled two glasses free. He glanced at Jon in question.

“Not tonight. Too much medication in my system still.”

Robb nodded and poured a glass for himself and for Ned. They shifted from the large cozy family room to the pristine kitchen. Robb took a seat at the expansive island as Jon added their dishes to the sink. Before he could even turn the faucet on to start cleaning, Ned dragged him to sit beside his brother.

“You’re here on holiday, not to play maid.” Ned took a short sip of whiskey. “Besides, you’ve only just left the hospital.”

Jon stilled. He’d been waiting for the scolding since he’d arrived. In truth, he’d been expecting it since Robb had come to check him out of the hospital that morning. Quickly, he searched for a familiar topic before they could start in on him.

“How’s work? I haven’t heard much about the Northern Assembly down in King’s Landing.”

Ned twisted the faucet on and started to scrub a plate, frowning all the while. “As stubborn as ever, but we’ve had worse representatives. Lady Karstark is proving quite a force.”

“Alys?” Robb looked shocked. “I didn’t think she’d ever get into politics.”

Ned chuckled. “When her brothers refused, she was eager to get involved. She’s young yet, but full of great ideas. Keeps the Greatjon on his toes quite a bit. I expect the same will be true for the Starks when I retire, considering you two.”

“I’m not a Stark.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “Tell that to your genetics. And Sansa, really? She never seemed…”

“Interested,” Jon finished, thinking over the more mature sister he’d reunited with this evening. 

Sansa had always been smart and gotten top grades in school, but she’d rarely thought of life outside of herself. Too often she’d spiralled into the pageantry and finery of the southern provinces, simpering away about fashion and nobility and the marvelous highborn boys she could meet. That scorn had always been subtly turned on Jon, but he’d left it for the childishness that it was. But tonight, Sansa had been charming, thoughtful, and kind. 

“She’s still undecided in her major, but she’s taken an interest since she went to that leadership camp chasing after some Lannister boy.”

“Well, if any of us follow in your footsteps, it’d have to be her,” Robb decided. “Jon and I aren’t. Bran wants to be a know-it-all, and Arya a beast. And Rickon... ”

“He’s only twelve,” Jon said. “Six months ago he wanted to be an astronaut. Besides, motocross is a dangerous career.”

“Like firefighting?”

When Jon turned to his father, he found a stern stare and a frustrated half-smile watching him.

“It’s part of my job,” Jon said before either Stark man could dig in further. Both Ned and Robb gave identical huffs of exasperation. “You know danger is a part of that. Injuries come with the territory.”

“When you’re on duty, yeah, not when you’re on a pub crawl and decide to play hero.” Robb downed half his glass and grimaced. “You scare the shit out of us too much, Jon. Especially if something serious ever did happen, none of us are anywhere close to King’s Landing.”

“We almost lost you once, Jon,” Ned added, his voice soft. “I’d rather not endure that again.”

“I like my job,” Jon said, even as a flash grenade of memory popped behind his eyes. “Taking risks like this time… I don’t make a habit of it, but the entire building exploded. If I’d waited for someone on duty to get there, the news would be about royal funeral plans instead of trying to figure out who I am. It was—”

“The right thing to do,” Ned finished, still frowning. An odd look crossed his face for a moment. “I never thought I’d one day regret teaching all of you that.”

“Might be a good idea to drop it for… oh, a few weeks,” Robb said, his teasing grin lighting up his face. “I’m sure she’d appreciate you being a bit less of a gentleman when you see her again.”

Jon flushed, ready to snap at Robb’s pushing, but the soapy plate in Ned’s hand clattered into the sink.

“Again? You’re seeing Daenerys Targaryen again?”

“No, Robb’s being stupid. And even if she does make good on that offer for dinner, we wouldn’t—I’m not the kind of guy who does that.”

Robb chuckled and squeezed his shoulder. “Gods, Jon, I’m just teasing. How is it you make it too much fun and also terrible to take the piss out of you having a crush?”

He turned to Father for someone to back him up, but Ned was staring at Jon with something like panic. Jon watched him collect the dropped plate from the sink as Ned cleared his throat.

“So you met her after?”

“Yeah,” Jon said slowly as Ned refused to meet their eyes. “She stopped by when she was released to thank me, that’s all. Said something about doing lunch or dinner as a proper thank you. I doubt it’ll happen. Royalty doesn’t have time for a guy like me.”

Was it just his imagination or was that a grimace of pain on Father’s face?

Jon glanced at Robb, who looked just as baffled.

“You’ll have to keep lusting from afar then,” Robb said, trying to ease the tension. “All wistful as you sit high up in your tower, brushing your dreamy curls as you await your fabled princess.”

“Okay, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

“Oh, Jon Snow,” Robb mocked, his voice going high and far too girlish to be Daenerys Targaryen. “Come down your tower, Jon Snow. Have dinner in my royal castle, nibble my fingers, tease my—”

Robb continued to croon like a ridiculous fairy tale princess, batting his eyes as Ned finished the last plate. Ulike his usual warm chuckles, Ned still seemed more concerned than amused by the conversation. Jon batted Robb’s hands away as he stood.

“No, I’m not staying for this, Robb.”

“But Jon Snow, sweet, heroic, Jonny Snow—”

“I will hit you so hard, you’ll get your own bedside vigil in a hospital, Stark.”

Robb batted his big blue eyes at him and pretended to flick his hair. “Come save me from the fires—”

“Robb, leave him—”

Jon’s phone rang. They all fell silent at the sound, more so at the late hour of the call. He expected Tormund’s great ginger mug to be on the screen when he pulled his phone from his pocket.  Instead it was the strangest number he’d ever seen, not even a complete one.

_ 1321 _

“Tormund on another bender?” Robb asked.

“No, it’s… that’s weird.” He turned it for Robb and Father to see, then hit accept. “Hello?”

Robb mouthed  _ Hospital?  _ at him, but Ned’s face had fallen.

On the other end of the call, static crackled, and then a soft voice answered.

“Jon Snow, this is Daenerys. Daenerys Targaryen.”

His shock must have been plain on his face. Robb grabbed one of his elbow crutches to hobble closer to listen, and Jon backed away. A bolt of lightning striking him would have been less of a jolt than her voice in his ear.

“Oh, um, hi. Daenerys, hi.”

Robb almost toppled over beside him. Jon waved him off.

“Hi, sorry about the late hour. And the strange phone number this probably came in as.”

“And for mysteriously having my phone number since you never asked for it?”

She laughed. “Perhaps.”

“Not going to explain that one?”

“I have my ways, Jon Snow, but I wanted to make dinner arrangements. Or lunch, if that’s better for you. If you’re still interested in that proper thank you.”

Jon gaped at his phone for a long moment as Robb waved his arms around in a silent, frantic demand for details.

“I’ll be attending a fundraiser event at Greywater Watch next weekend,” Daenerys continued at his silence. “I know you said you’re on holiday, visiting your family, but I fly in Friday and thought we could meet that evening.”

“I, uh, that’s…” Jon cleared his throat. “Yeah, no, dinner sounds great. Friday night’s fine. My brother’s house isn’t too far from there. D-do you have an address?”

“No, traveling when you’re… well, me, makes that a bit difficult, but I’ll get you the information early next week, if that’s okay?”

“Okay. Great.”

“Yeah?” 

Perhaps it was just the normal static of calls in the North, but Jon was almost certain she sounded relieved when he confirmed.

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

“Wonderful. It’s a date, Jon Snow.”

Robb grinned as he ended the call. “You better not be pranking us. That was actually her?”

Jon nodded, light-headed, as he dropped back into his seat at the counter.

“And?”

But it wasn’t Robb pressing for information this time. Their father had never appeared more worried than he did at that moment. And Jon had a sudden, harsh understanding of why that was. For all the ways that Ned had treated Jon as equally like his trueborn children, there were some boundaries that could not be crossed. Even for Ned it seemed. A bastard, even a refutable high lord’s, should not be in the company of royalty. He certainly shouldn’t have dinner with a princess either, not one-on-one.

The spark of excitement that had burst inside Jon faded some under his father’s look. “It’s only dinner, that’s it. She just wants to thank me, Father. After that, we’ll go our own separate ways.”

Some of the worry lines eased on Ned’s face. He smiled gently and patted Jon on the shoulder, but he’d never mastered hiding the truth in his eyes. “You’ll have to tell us all about it after. Have fun, okay?”

Jon nodded. Father left then, after a hug for each of them, ascending the curved stairs that led to the master suite.

Jon turned to Robb. “Mind if I borrow your car Friday?”

“No, duh, like I’d stand in the way of your magical date with a princess. But, I expect  _ all  _ the details when you get back, not whatever version you tell Father’s delicate ears.”

Robb held out his hand to shake, and Jon grasped it. Whatever version he gave Ned would be the same accounting he gave Robb, he had no doubt. “Fine, but there’s not going to be anything to tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know nothing, Jon Snow.


	4. DAENERYS II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Jon and Dany date night, my dears. 
> 
> This chapter went on a bit longer than I'd planned (like 2k longer), but that's the way of it sometimes. 
> 
> Anyway, next update in a few weeks, perhaps sooner!
> 
> Have fun and enjoy! :)

 

“Pack warm. I know it’s summer, but the North is cold year round.”

Dany placed a sweater in her suitcase to appease her brother. She’d begun packing for her trip almost an hour ago. On her own, Dany would have been halfway through the morning traffic to the airport on the outskirts of King’s Landing by now. With Rhaegar’s help, she’d done more unpacking than not.

“Perhaps a thicker one,” he said, eyeing the sweater she’d selected. Behind him, Ser Arthur shifted in the bright shaft of sunlight streaming in from her windows. He was almost invisible except for the occasional glint of golden light off his armor. “Snows aren’t out of the question either, even in July. If you catch a chill…”

“I’ll guzzle cold medicine.” Dany slapped his hand when he tried to remove it. “Gods, Rhaegar, I’m not a toddler trying to swim in a ball gown. The Neck is as south as the North gets. A summer snow is as likely as you _not_ coddling me. I can handle a little cold.”

_And I might have someone to keep me warm if I can’t._

Just thinking about Jon Snow made heat blossom on Dany’s cheeks. He’d said yes to their dinner date tonight, though only herself and Ser Barristan were privy to that information. She’d sworn him to secrecy, as was her right with her sworn shield, but the old knight had given her a look as if she’d personally ushered doomsday into the room and offered it her soul.

Perhaps seeing Jon Snow again was unwise. She’d found and read his personal history that was public record, and some parts that were not. Two and a half years in the royal army, honorably discharged. Then a volunteer at shelters and animal rescues around King’s Landing. Now a top-rated firefighter, but his past was less than pristine with a mysterious three year sentence at, or beyond, the Wall as a teenager. Those documents had been sealed, even from the royal princess.

Her mother would consider the dinner improper. Rhaegar would think it thoughtful, but unnecessary. Tyrion, no doubt, would question her true motives, and assume the worst. Perhaps it was all one huge mistake. Her last monumental choice that forced her out of contention for the throne some day. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

And yet, Jon’s deep gray eyes lingered in her mind. Even half unconscious in a hospital bed, he’d been a beautiful, warming sight. Kind and calm, and more genuine than anyone in her life, even her brother. For some, damnably hopeful reason, Jon had agreed to see her once more. Over the phone, he’d sounded almost _excited_. As if he welcomed her presence like a humid summer day embraced a sudden, thunderous downpour.

“Dany, are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry?”

Rhaegar gave her a sour look.

“You need to be careful. You need to _think_ before you act. If this turns into another fiasco, Mother will lock you away in here. I doubt even Tyrion will be able to convince her otherwise, no matter how much wine he’s had.”

“I know that.”

Dany turned back to her expansive closet, eyeing the flowing gowns, the summery dresses, the jewels and tiaras, the neat rows of heels, flats, and sandals. She made a big show of examining several pairs to avoid Rhaegar’s gaze.

“This fundraiser is a good opportunity to turn around your current image,” Rhaegar continued. “Howland Reed keeps to himself so the press won’t have a huge presence, but you’re great with kids. You can really set yourself on the right path with some positive press before we head into the Unification Day celebration...”

Rhaegar’s voice faltered, and before she turned, Dany could hear him moving something in her suitcase. Condoms, she knew. She’d tucked a small box away, just in case. Hardening her spine to iron, Dany selected a pair of heels and a old pair of flats before she stood to face him.

Sure enough, Rhaegar held the small box in his hands like it was a newborn baby chick he feared to break. They were a hopeful precaution at best, but Dany preferred to be prepared. And Jon Snow… well, she hadn’t missed the longing that had swept over his face when their hands had joined. The spark of intrigue and hope in his eyes that simmered in her chest.

Rhaegar swallowed. He set the condoms back in her suitcase as she put the shoes in and zipped it up.

“Please, be careful.” Rhaegar cupped her face and made her meet his eyes. “I know you’re a grown woman, Dany, I do, but you will always be my baby sister. And, no matter what life you choose, I only want you to be safe, to have goodness and good people in your life. To be _happy_. Gods know, at least one Targaryen should be.”

Melancholy descended on Rhaegar like a fog. Dany nodded as he kissed her forehead, and tried not to let her thoughts drift where her brother’s surely had. To his lost wife, Elia; his little daughter and infant son that had died with her. In her whole life, Dany couldn’t recall him mentioning anything from that time; not his marriage nor his children nor the years of breakdowns and severe depression that had followed.

“Have a safe trip. Make sure you check in here once you land.”

“I will, promise.”

Ser Arthur led Rhaegar from her chambers, but before Dany and Ser Barristan could follow, Tyrion Lannister blocked her exit. Despite his short stature, her advisor’s annoyance was like a pufferfish expanding to fill her room. His mismatched eyes were furious.

“Why is it I’m the last to find out you’re leaving early?”

Ser Barristan shifted behind him, a nervous twitch going at the corner of his mouth. She did her best to ignore it. If Tyrion had figured out her plans, he wouldn’t have danced around them.

“We thought it best to give ourselves more time since we’re flying into White Harbor instead of the Twins. Lord Reed suggested it was best to avoid driving through the Neck after dark.”

Tyrion watched her for any hint of deception. The furrow of his brow made her sure Tyrion sensed the lie in her words, but he couldn’t fault the logic. Lord Reed _had_ given her that advice. But as always, Tyrion had an ear for knowing when words held more than simple truths.

“I should have been informed. The last interviews for your International Relations Specialist are this morning. _Your_ one-on-one interviews with the two candidates I’ve chosen.”

Dany winced, and Tyrion’s suspicions of deceit seemed to be confirmed. She’d forgotten about the interviews in truth. Jon Snow bursting into her life as a shadow through the flames had pushed most other thoughts from her mind.

“My apologies, Tyrion. I should have been more prudent in adjusting my schedule. Is there any chance to reschedule for Monday?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No, they’ve both traveled a long way to be here, Daenerys. I doubt they’ll care to make the journey again.”

She nodded. “Extend my apologies to each of them, please. And conduct the final interviews as best you can. Perhaps with Rhaegar, if he is willing. You know me quite well at this point, and I trust you both to select whomever you think best.”

He snorted, looking half-exasperated and half-pleased. “A diplomatic answer, is it? Well, that’s a joy to hear, I suppose.”

Ser Barristan stepped forward to wheel her suitcase out, but Tyrion caught her forearm at the door.

“Whatever you’re planning,” he said quietly, “can you at least _try_ to be inconspicuous this time?”

Dany held his gaze. “I’ll see you next week, Lord Tyrion.”

 

* * *

 

A sharp wind bit into Dany as soon as they landed in White Harbor. Gulls squawked from the crumbling stone crenellations that had once been the ancient city’s curtain wall. Salt was pugnant in the damp air. All around them, the sea sang as it met the docks and buildings in the harbor across the wide mouth of the White Knife.

They drove for almost three hours, away from the sea and deep into the winding heart of the Neck’s swampy marshes. She found her hotel lacked southern poshness, but Tyrion had set her up in the best suite available. Both her and Ser Barristan had their own bedrooms and bathrooms. A grand living space joined them, including a kitchenette and a square oak dining table. Dany took her suitcase into her room, finding a plush turquoise king-size bed and modest oak furnishings. Windows made up the south-facing wall. Before her, the wilderness of the Neck covered the horizon. The sun glowed like a ripe grapefruit as it descended toward the jagged treeline, half hidden by the hazy air.

Ser Barristan knocked on her open door. His normal royal guard attire had been replaced with a simply, less conspicuous suit. “Princess, I’ve had a menu brought up for you to order your dinner courses. And,” he hesitated, “I think it would be best to dine here, in the room.”

She’d thought the same, but Dany didn’t voice her agreement. Being seen with Jon Snow in such an intimate dining setting could be disastrous. Pinpointing where the press might be lurking was always difficult. Even regular citizens might sell her outings for money. One small slip today, and tomorrow Howland Reed’s charitable fundraiser for his orphanage would become a paparazzi spectacle.

“Did you notify the front desk of my guest’s arrival time?”

“Yes, Princess.” Ser Barristan cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Daenerys, I don’t think this is wise. I know he saved your life, and I will be forever grateful for that. But you have already thanked him for doing his job. This dinner seems unnecessary. You read his history. A man who’s spent time at the Wall—”

“As a boy,” Dany reminded him, thinking back on Jon Snow’s records. Some of it had surprised her, but most had not. If anything, seeing he had black marks on his past was a comfort. “Those records are sealed, even from us, Ser Barristan, and perhaps that’s best. We all do stupid things as children, some worse than others. Some even at my age as you’ve seen lately.”

“Princess, you’ve done nothing to earn a prison sentence.”

“Others would disagree. I’ve hardly been innocent of late,” Dany said, and admitting that truth clogged her throat. “I’m sorry I keep dragging you into my messes, that I am not as obedient as a princess ought to be. But this time, with him… Jon Snow is more than some teenage mistake. I will not judge him for a truth that has not been explained.”

“I still think it cause for concern, Princess.”

Dany turned back to the window, gazing down at the mostly empty parking lot. “Perhaps, it is. But has he not done good since then? Serving in the royal army, devoting his life to serving and protecting as a firefighter. He and his brother started a rehabilitation center for their fellow soldiers. Even around the city, Jon’s done volunteer work. He’s not another Daario.”

Ser Barristan sighed. “No, he’s not.”

For some reason, that only deepened the worry lines on his brow.

Dany selected their courses for dinner and sent Ser Barristan downstairs to place the order and await Jon Snow’s arrival. She emptied her suitcase, and changed from her dress into something more casual. A simple ruby blouse and a knee-length pleated skirt. She left her hair braided. A few minutes after six o’clock, the electronic lock clicked on the door. Ser Barristan stepped in with Jon Snow on his heels.

He looked nervous, but had dressed casual as she’d requested. Dark slim jeans, sharp leather boots, and a dark gray Henley. A much healthier color flushed his face compared to the paleness from the hospital, his dark curls knotted in a tight bun at the back of his head.

“Hello, again, Jon Snow.”

Ser Barristan stepped to the side, taking up his place of guard beside the table. Jon glanced at him before approaching her.

“Thank you, again, for the invitation, Princess.”

Jon gave a small half-bow, carefully taking her offered hand to kiss her knuckles. A customary Westerosi greeting for a royal princess. His whiskers tickled her skin, a little thrill running through her at the brush of his soft lips. The gesture was surprisingly well executed. Dany clasped his hand when he tried to pull away.

“Of course, Jon, and please, call me Daenerys. We’re not a princess and a subject of the crown, tonight, okay? Just two people sharing a meal and conversation.”

Jon relaxed a bit at that. “All right, Pr—Daenerys. Ser Barristan said that we were dining in the room?”

She nodded and waved for him to sit at the table. Again, he surprised her, easing a chair out for her, then pushing her in. As Jon took a seat at a right angle to her, Dany examined him. Healthier for certain. His eyes were a steely gray in the fading sunlight from the windows, his beard neatly trimmed and shaped. A tendon ticked in his neck when their eyes met.

“I see the sunburn’s gone,” Jon said. “Davos had one once that made his whole nose peel.”

She rubbed at her own nose. The red glow had faded quickly, though it had been a sore, itchy annoyance for several days. “I’m quite grateful to not have that shared experience. Davos was the man with you at the hospital, yes?”

Again, Jon glanced at Ser Barristan’s unwavering presence. Her old knight normally stared ahead, but tonight his eyes were fixed on Jon. “He’s a good man. Bit like having an uncle for a boss.”

“He did seem quite fond of you,” Dany noted as his fingers drummed on the table top. “Jon, relax. Ser Barristan is my sworn shield, he goes everywhere I do. His duty requires him to remain at my side for near every waking moment.”

“Right. Sorry. I’m not… used to it, that’s all.”

But a look passed between the two men, and Dany wondered what her knight might have said while escorting Jon upstairs. A coil of anger tightened in her chest. As Jon fidgetted beside her, she cast Ser Barristan a stern look until he relented in his glaring.

Her first course for the evening arrived then with a sharp knock on the door. Ser Barristan cleared the server for entry with her food cart. Cutlery was placed before each of them, glasses of water, then a salad and crispy cardamom breadsticks. They ate in silence for several minutes after the employee left, but Dany couldn’t stand the stiltedness. Nor the guilt churning in her belly at whatever welcome Jon had received earlier.

She squeezed Jon’s free hand where it rested on the table.

“You look much better as well,” she told him. “I’m glad your voice doesn’t sound like its been run through a grater anymore.”

“Oh.” Jon’s laugh was a deep, rich sound that sent a warm jolt through Dany’s belly like a spring coil popping. “Smoke inhalation can do funny things to voices. Being home has helped, lots of fresh air.”

Fondness swept across his face, a slight smile at some secret from his visit home perhaps.

“Is that why you’ve hidden your lovely curls away as well? Too much northern air?”

Jon’s face went as ruby as her blouse. He fingered the tight knot at the back of his head, looking embarrassed. “No, I just… well, I… it’s easier to tie it all up in the summer. For work, too.”

Dany scolded herself then, at the way Jon seemed to curl in on himself, at the blush high on his cheeks and the way his mouth turned down. Boldness had seemed a staple of his character in King’s Landing, but perhaps she’d judged him wrong. A certain daring was necessary for firefighting, but beyond his job, Jon might be a very different man. Less chaotic, more subdued and soft-spoken. Not a man audacious enough to flirt with her. Her insides wilted at the prospect.

“I suppose that’s why you’ve kept yours braided,” Jon said, and the hand he’d touched his bun with reached out and stroked her thick braid resting on her shoulder. “All this humid swamp air.”

Delighted shock spun through her. His fingers brushed her arm before he returned to his salad.

“Perhaps, Jon Snow. I can hardly make a public appearance with my hair imitating a brillo pad.”

“Not interested in starting a new hair trend?”

“No, that’s more my brother’s forte, though he’ll deny it to his grave.”

That earned her another warm chuckle that Dany wished she could keep, hidden away only for her ears.

Their salads were exchanged for little globes of mint sorbet to cleanse their palettes. She half-expected Jon to stare at the frozen, green treat in bewilderment. Most people, even some of the newer lords she’d met, were unsure why a dessert dish was placed before them instead of the next course. But this was a meal befitting a royal princess. Jon, however, simply scooped up a little wedge and sucked it slowly from the spoon. Not too big to freeze his mouth, but just enough to serve its purpose. Dany did the same.  

Steaming bowls of stew followed. As Dany blew on hers, she eyed Jon’s new ease. He’d relaxed with their jests, had seemingly forgotten Ser Barristan’s silent presence across the table. His movements amongst the abundance of cutlery and courses were natural, too.

“What event are you attending this weekend?”

As soon as she mentioned Howland Reed’s fundraiser, Jon’s face lit up.

“At Winter Rose Orphanage?” Jon nodded as he hefted a spoonful of stew over his bowl. “It’s a lot of fun. I hope you brought shoes to run in. Those kids don’t take no for an answer when they decide they like you.”

“You’ve gone before?”

“Father used to bring us every summer. He and Howland go way back, they started the orphanage together about twenty years ago now,” Jon explained. “He’s a bit of a quirky man, Howland, but he’s very generous. You always feel at home around the Reeds.” He tasted his stew with a soft hum of approval. “Just don’t stare at his hump or he’ll chase you round the lot.”

“His _hump_?”

“Mmm, gnarled hands like tree roots, too. And he’s got this huge wart that’s growing over his left eye. Broken veins and liver spots as well. Nice man if you can get past him looking like a cross between a frog and a gargoyle.”

Dany gaped at him. She could not believe that, and yet, she’d heard the rumors of the people who lived in the Neck. Crannogmen, bogmen, some even called them frogeaters in old histories. They were never depicted nicely, but to think it might be true instead of hyperbole…

“He’s a hideous sight, truly.”

Mirth glittered as bright as gems in Jon’s eyes. His spoonful of stew shook in his hand as he caught the horrified look on her face, his chuckles echoing around the room. Dany flushed, but seeing him smile and laugh warmed her to her toes. She joined in, swatting his shoulder.

“That was very rude, Jon Snow. I’ll make sure to pass along you flattering description tomorrow.”

Jon shot her a wide, toothy grin that made his eyes crinkle. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. Probably have the kids do an art contest to see who draws his hump the best, then mail me the best ones.”

“He does _not_ have a hump.”

“Might be he does.”

“ _Jon._ ”

“What? He can’t help having a hump.”

He went back to his stew, still well-mannered as he ate. He had no hint of teasing in his eyes then, and a tinge of worry ran through her. Surely, Lord Reed did not have a hump. Someone would have prepared her for that. But Howland Reed was as close to a recluse as a lord could get. He rarely left his isolated town. Not even Rhaegar had met him, best Dany recalled, though her brother was quite well-traveled as the crown prince.

She tried a spoonful of the stew, willing Jon’s brilliant laugh to burst forth again in answer. Instead, she almost choked on the sharp taste in her mouth. Every chew sent her taste buds zinging. Jon was watching her when she looked up.

“It’s game,” Jon explained.

Dany stirred the contents of her bowl, examining the pieces of meat. “It’s very… different.”

“Rabbit and venison, some pheasant, too. We don’t have much in the way of processed meat in the North, outside the major cities. Most of its wild game. Leaner meat, less fatty. Very tender, if cooked right like this is, but the flavor can be a bit strong.”  

She tried it a second time, chewing slowly, savoring the meat’s tenderness, the new flavors that played on her tongue. Prepared for it, the taste was quite pleasant.

“It’s nice,” Dany decided as Jon finished his bowl. “Different, but a pleasant surprise.”

This time, when Dany reached for his hand, Jon turned his palm up to meet hers. Something close to fondness danced in his eyes.

They spoke of the North after that, as their third and fourth courses were brought upstairs. Jon’s entire demeanor changed as he told her about his home, but more so his family: three brothers, two sisters, a loving father, even a foster brother. Laughter enveloped their meal as each Stark came to life with his words. A wild baby brother always caked in mud and grime. His favorite sister, Arya, willful enough to pursue a path to becoming a sworn shield; his nosey brother, Bran, and then Sansa who’d always scoffed at all the wildness of her siblings. And Robb, too, Jon’s older brother by only a few months. He spoke as fondly of one as he did the next, but none more than his father, Lord Eddard.

An ache settled in Dany’s chest with each new name, even Theon Greyjoy, the foster brother that exasperated Jon more than all the rest. Her own family was small in comparison. Every year, as a girl, it had seemed to grow smaller. Madness taking her father’s life, learning of the good sister, niece, and nephew that were already lost to her. Then poor Viserys, once sweet as a young boy, then lost to madness like their father. Only her mother and Rhaegar had ever brought warmth or joy to the idea of family, but so much of what befell Viserys had snuffed that out. Still, Jon’s words were like a tight, warm hug as he introduced her to his life. His stories were what she’d always expected a family to be, but never fully experienced as a daughter of the crown.

They split a vanilla bean creme brulee to end their dinner, exchanging bashful smiles whenever their spoons clinked together. After the table was cleared, the servers left a tray of cappuccinos and mints. Dany stirred her cup as she moved to the couch by the moonlit windows.

Jon scooped his up, glanced at Ser Barristan as solid as a wall of rock by the table, then followed her.

Dany kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet under her. As she sipped her drink, she watched Jon settle in beside her. Talking about his family had lightened him, but he sat up straight when she slid closer.

“You were just teasing about Lord Howland,” she pressed. “About him having a hump.”

For a lingering moment, Jon held her gaze, his eyes serious. Then he broke with a soft laugh under his breath. “Unless he’s developed one in the last few years, he’s hump-free.”

“You’re cruel to tease me, Jon Snow.”

A flush crept up his neck, almost unnoticed in the dim lighting. He took a huge gulp of hot cappuccino, then choked on it when she traced the shell of his ear with her finger. After a few coughs, Jon set his mug on the coffee table and placed his hands on his knees. His fingers flexed rhythmically, squeezing and relaxing.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Howland?” Jon seemed unsure of his own words with her rubbing at the soft skin where his ear and jaw met. “Couple years now. Thought I might stop by on my way south next week, i-if I drive back.” A shaky breath left him as Dany slid closer, her finger tugging a few dark curls loose. She could smell his cologne, sharp, pine musk and a freshness like mountain air. “I haven’t gone to his fundraiser since I was a boy. Before I was sent to—”

One of Jon’s hands caught her wrist gently and stopped her. He cleared his throat and shifted to face her, easing back from her hand. Dany swallowed at the set of his jawline. At the rejection and uncertainty staring back at her. Lust was there, too, his pupils full and wide, but for whatever reason, Jon refused to go forward.

Dany sat back, her hand dropping. Had she been wrong? Had she read his lingering looks and assumed what she wanted was the same for him? She felt as foolish as a young girl then, like she’d shrunk to a quarter of her size.

“Princess—”

“Daenerys.”

“Right, Daenerys, I…” Jon seemed to deflate. Not like a punctured balloon, slowly and loudly leaking helium, but like one burst with a sharp knife. “I expect you’ve done your research on me since the fire.” He shook his head when she made to speak. “No, I get it. I might not be a Stark by name, but I was raised in Winterfell castle. I know the sort of preparations that go into meetings between people of… different classes, let’s say.”

“I don’t care about such things, Jon. Your birth does not—”

“You know I spent time at the Wall.”

Dany stilled, her heart hammering. “Yes.”

“At Castle Black, specifically.”

She glanced at Ser Barristan. Right then, she had no doubt about her sworn shield’s interference before he’d brought Jon Snow upstairs. Surely, Jon would not bring up such a subject on his own.

“Jon, it does not matter to me, whatever happened. I daresay, you met me in the middle of one of my own worst decisions.”

“It seems we both have our own foolish choices to haunt us.”

He offered her a sad smile, resting his upturned palm on his knee in invitation. She examined it, from the faded burn scars to the way his skin formed little rounded bubbles on his fingertips. Carefully, Dany slid her hand into his, threading their fingers together. His grip was firm, safe. It was almost overwhelming in how simply it held her and expected nothing in return.

“My time at the Wall isn’t something I want to hide from. Honesty is important to me, Daenerys. Those years at Castle Black are part of who I’ve become and if you’re—if we—” He gestured at her and then toward himself. “I’d like to explain, if you’re willing to listen.”

His earnestness caught Dany in the throat. That was the man she’d hoped to see once more, the one with gentle kindness in his smile and genuine care in his eyes. Jon offered her a half-smile, almost self-deprecating, as he tentatively squeezed her hand.

“I don’t know much,” Dany admitted. “Juvenile records are sealed, even from us. You were very young?”

“Fourteen, almost fifteen. It was the end of my first year at Long Lake Academy with Robb and Theon.” Jon swallowed as he stared at his knees. “My father fought very hard for me to be allowed to attend with them. Bastards aren’t given admission to academies, not even royal ones.”

_Or a high lord’s,_ Dany thought, a wave of sadness cresting over her. It was hardly fair, and yet that was how Westeros operated, even to this day, amongst the elite. Any children born out of wedlock were refused their parents’ surnames. In Dorne, Westeros’s most liberal province, they’d recently passed a law to allow illegitimate children to take their mother’s name, but the other six provinces were stalwart in the old tradition. Snow, Rivers, Hill, Flowers, Stone, Storm. Every region had a unique surname for children that would have been considered unwanted a century ago. A father’s surname was never allowed unless it was by royal decree.

“Headmaster Thorne tried everything he could to get me expelled. But I did well in my classes. Made a lot of the other boys angry at first when I proved I was capable, but I had Robb and Theon. We got into a prank war with some boys in another dormitory. Just stupid stuff, silly water balloon pranks, shaving cream messes. It was fun at first, but eventually…”

“Someone got hurt,” Dany guessed.

“Theon.” Bitterness seeped into the name, but Jon only shook his head and continued, “Sprained ankle, but it was his ego that took the bigger bruising. He thought up this crazy idea with wires and suspending someone from a ceiling beam in the common hall. Robb didn’t like it much, but he agreed. I tried to talk them out of it. They didn’t even get the guy they were after. And the boy they did get…

“His whole leg got mangled. Blood everywhere. He hit his head when it hoisted him up, too. The wires Theon used were from the pottery class. Razor sharp ones made to separate the wet clay pots from the wheels. Theon ran for it, but Robb and I stayed. Tried to stop the bleeding, but I made Robb go when we heard someone coming. I took the fall for it, so they wouldn’t get expelled, too. And Headmaster Thorne…” A rueful smile crept onto Jon’s face. “He made an example of me, as proof why no bastard belonged in his prestigious academy. The boy’s father pressed charges and since I admitted to it all, there wasn’t much my father could do. He managed to get me sent to Castle Black instead of one of the juvenile prisons beyond the Wall.”

“Jon, that’s… I’m sorry.”

Dany couldn’t think of what else to say. The entire tale was horrifying, from the discrimination for his birth to the bloody mess he’d shouldered on his own. A shiver seemed to run through Jon, like a cold draft had crawled up his spine.

“It was a long time ago, and I’ve made my peace with it. I made my choice, and I don’t regret it. All three of us are better men for it.”

She was almost afraid to ask, but Dany pushed the words forth. “And the boy that was hurt?”

“He’s a good friend now,” Jon said, surprising her with a smile. “His leg’s never been the same, but he was grateful I stayed to stop the bleeding. If I hadn’t…”

“He would have gone the way I would have in that fire.”

Jon didn’t hide from that truth either. “Aye, he would have. You both might have.”

He didn't seem proud of his actions. Not pleased nor cocky about saving her life and the life of some boy caught up in a childish prank war. He wasn’t even humble in that moment. Contrite was as close as Dany could explain his expression, but it hardly made sense to her.

Jon was a hero. Of war and as a firefighter, even as a young man. He had that rare, selfless dash of courage that seemed to propel him to do whatever was right, no matter the personal cost. The makings of a true sworn shield like Ser Barristan or Ser Arthur Dayne, like his favorite sister hoped to be. If she were half the person her brother was, Dany had no doubt she’d be the first woman to achieve it.

She glanced past Jon to her knight then. Ser Barristan’s tight expression spoke volumes more than any words. He’d assumed the worst of Jon, just like so many others had before.

“Thank you for telling me,” Dany said. She reached for his shoulder, tentative as she rested her palm on the soft fabric. Hard muscles shifted under her fingers as he leaned into her touch. “And for what you do.”

“It’s my job,” Jon said automatically. “I was only doing my job.”

“I think it’s much more, and much greater, than simply doing a job, Jon Snow. Most especially for you.”

Their eyes met, and a brittle hope came with it, flooding her belly. Shallow breaths left her as the room seemed to shrink to a singular view of Jon. Not Ser Barristan behind him, nor the tray of mints on the table, not even the cooling cappuccinos beside them. For a few shattering moments, it was simply them, a magnetic tether inching their lives closer.

Jon broke their locked gaze first. He gruffly cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Dany let out a shaky breath and leaned away.

“I-I should get going. You’ll need your rest if you’re going to charm half a hundred kids tomorrow.”

But Jon lingered on the couch with her, even as Tyrion’s and Rhaegar’s voices mingled in her head. Warnings to be safe and inconspicuous chased each other around her mind. But their words had never held her hand as gently and surely as Jon did then.

“Would you like to go with me? To the fundraiser?”

“Oh, I…” Jon huffed a surprised breath, eyes wide. “I mean, yes, it’s always a lot of fun, but I’m not sure how I’d get there. I had to borrow my brother’s—”

“Stay.”

He stared at her. Even Ser Barristan shifted at her boldness.

“Daenerys—”

“I’ve been warned it’s a dangerous drive through the Neck after dark, Jon Snow,” and Dany allowed some of her more familiar teasing to return to her voice. “Stay here tonight, with me. We can surprise Lord Reed with you as my guest tomorrow. From what you’ve said, I expect he’ll be glad to see you.”

Her request was beyond presumptuous. She half-expected Ser Barristan to speak up then, but he didn't. Jon took a shaky breath.

“I—all right. Sure.” He cleared his throat. “I can sleep out here, on the couch.”

“When I’ve a perfectly huge bed in my room?” Dany brushed the shell of his ear again, then cupped his cheek. “That seems rather silly, Jon Snow.”

Before he could talk her into his fit of gallantry, Dany leaned forward and kissed him. A short kiss, just the dry pressure of her lips touching his, but Jon gave a pleasant shudder all the same. She sat back enough to see his eyes, the gray mostly lost to his blown pupils. He seemed quite dazed as his eyes drifted from her lips to her chest.

When she kissed him a second time, Jon met her eagerly. His lips pushed back, molding softly to hers, gently cupping her bottom lip before retreating. He surged forward in a hot puff of breath. She tugged him close, her fingers weaving into his tied up curls, loosening them until the leather tie was free. Very quickly, Dany found herself overwhelmed by his passion. Jon’s lips were firm as they coaxed hers apart, his tongue a gentle swipe of pressure on her lips, his fingers delicate as they stroked her neck.

Dany was almost in his lap when the sharp click of a door shutting broke them apart. Jon jumped, his eyes darting to where her knight had stood beside the table. Ser Barristan was gone, his bedroom door shut tight.

“Perhaps we should move this to my room,” Dany suggested. He looked beautifully wrecked, his jaw slack and eyes dark. “Jon?”

He shifted uncomfortably. For a moment, Dany thought it was her suggestion, but Jon tugged at his jeans, at the bulge pressing against the dark fabric. He almost seemed embarrassed.

“Okay, but no more than this, than kissing.” Jon cleared his throat and avoided her gaze. “No sex. Not tonight. Whatever this is, whatever we’re discovering, I don’t want to rush it.”

A wave of disappointment rolled through her. She’d hoped for that, had wanted to be close to Jon, to feel the heat of his skin, the firm muscles of his body, the strength of his body joining with hers. Having him in her bed beside her, without that, made her skin prickle anxiously.

“All right, but I don’t—I’m not sure—”

She hated how uncertain she sounded, how small and as fragile as glass. Jon took a deep breath and swept his curls out of his face.

“I want to know you, Daenerys. I’ve enjoyed talking with you tonight more than I can say. If you still want me to join you tomorrow, I absolutely will. I can sleep out here, if that’s easier. I’ve slept in worse places.”

Her throat constricted at how earnest he was. No man, perhaps nobody in her life, had ever truly treated her like Jon had tonight. Not as a princess, nor a child to be kept in line, not as an object like Drogo had so many years ago. With Jon, she felt like a person. A normal young woman experiencing some vast, terrifying and hopeful new horizon with the young man beside her.

“I want you there tomorrow,” Dany said, her voice raw. “And tonight…” She choked out a laugh. “Jon, _I_ don’t even have room to lay down on this couch.”

“The floor’s more than wide enough.”

Dany laughed again, a burst of delight so pure and elated, she felt almost drunk with it.

Jon gave her a sheepish smile and shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve slept in worse.”

“Well, not tonight. Come on.”

She stood and took his hand, leading him across the room to her bedroom. The door clicked shut before them. Dany opened a drawer on the wardrobe and handed Jon her sweatpants. Her sleeping clothes were hardly befitting a princess, but she liked to be comfortable when she slept. Her trusty sweatpants and baggy purple nightshirt had never yet failed her.

“Here, they’re probably a bit small for you, but they’ll be more comfortable.”

Before Jon could say anything further, Dany hurried into the bathroom with her nightshirt. She took her time changing and brushing her teeth, her skin itching with nerves like little fireworks were going off all along her veins.

Jon was seated on the bed when she returned, his boots and jeans set neatly by the wardrobe, his Henley draped on the desk chair. He still wore a plain white undershirt, but her sweatpants were rather too small for him. His bare ankles were visible.

“Never would have expected a princess to own sweatpants.”

Dany climbed into bed. “There’s plenty you don’t know about me, Jon Snow.”

He eased himself under the blankets beside her and slid down until his head was on the pillows. “Well, I know you’re bold, and like good food. You must get cold easy, if you wear these to bed every night. You’ve got a smile that might melt the sun, and I think you’re more scared of lying here beside me fully clothed than you are of Howland Reed’s alleged hump.”

“You’re one to talk of boldness.” Her face burned at his words, the truth like a serrated knife slicing her. “I’m not scared of this.”

“No? I am.” Dany glanced at him, convinced he was mocking her, but his eyes were as honest as ever. “I’ve been with only two women in my life, and I don’t think we ever just lay in bed and talked.”

She turned the light off, then slid slowly down to join him. “I haven’t either,” she confessed. “It was always… well, sex.”

Jon rolled toward her, moonlight catching in his eyes as darkness swallowed the room. “I’ve had my fair share of sleepovers. And late night chats with my siblings. This is just like that.”

Dany rolled to face him, resting one hand under her pillow, and the other on the dip between theirs. “I’ve never done that either.”

Jon’s hand crept to the divide and closed over hers. “Guess I’ll go first then.”

He talked into the quiet of the night. About the men of his firehouse and the camping trip he’d taken with his brothers and father the week before. They talked about nothing at all it seemed. Silly stories from their childhoods, games and jokes they’d played, even their worst and best subjects in school. Dany told him of her favorite childhood retreat of Dragonstone, of being a lonely girl amongst a castle of adults in King’s Landing, about all her misadventures while at university in Essos, and poor Ser Barristan just trying to keep up. All of it seemed so random, almost nonsensical, but for the new snippets of Jon that came from them. His favorite hobbies, how much he hated his hair short, the mischievous boy that had grown into the thoughtful man beside her.

She shut her eyes and listened to the steady, deep lull of his voice murmuring next to her. His fingers stroked her palm and wrist, and, somehow, that was more satisfying than anything else she’d wished for that morning. Dany pulled his hand closer as she drifted off to sleep.


	5. JON III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to introduce the infamous Howland Reed, and those perky Butts that were promised make a short debut as well. :)

Murmuring voices woke Jon the next morning. A door nearby clicked shut, and a shower cut on. Hazy fog blanketed the windows obscuring the landscape from view. Daenerys was gone, her body’s impression a warm hollow beside him. His hand tingled from being entwined with hers all night. Jon stretched, then froze as someone’s bulky shadow fell across him.

_ Ser Barristan come to scold me or worse. _

Jon rolled onto his back and found Ser Barristan watching him. Instead of the protective hostility Jon had been greeted with last night, Ser Barristan seemed surprised. He took in Jon’s shirt and sweatpants as Jon pushed the blankets aside.

“Princess Daenerys is preparing for the fundraiser,” he told Jon. “Breakfast is at half past nine. We depart at ten sharp.”

Jon thanked him, then went to collect his belongings. His phone was dead where he’d left it nestled in his left boot. No doubt he’d have a dozen calls and texts from Robb when he finally got back to the car to charge it. Jon set it on the desk, determined to ignore that reality for a bit longer, then turned around. Ser Barristan stood guard by the open doorway.

“The second bathroom has another bathroom.” Ser Barristan scrutinized Jon. “You are welcome to use it.”

“Thanks.”

Jon hesitated to leave. Ser Barristan might be thrice his age, but the knight’s deeds and expertise were renowned. Today he was resplendent in his royal guard attire instead of yesterday’s nonchalant suit. As fierce and bold as a lion, and just as lethal. His hushed warnings from last night echoed in Jon’s head like the thunderous gong of a sept bell tolling. Not at the front desk, not during the short walk across the hotel’s quaint lobby, but once they’d stepped into the lift’s enclosed space and begun their ascent, Ser Barristan had jammed the stop button.

_ “If you hurt her, if you even appear like you’re considering selling your story or harming her in any way, you will never be safe from me.” _

Ser Barristan had said nothing more as he’d sent the elevator to the top floor. Jon had expected hostility from Daenerys’s sworn shield. His bastard surname alone garnered a certain distrust, especially among the highborn of Westeros. But his time at the Wall made matters more difficult. People who had served time at the Wall weren’t as despised as those imprisoned beyond it, nor as shunned as the Free Folk born in those places, but it did nothing to help Jon’s image.

Jon was almost through the door when a large, strong hand caught his shoulder. He stiffened.

“Jon, I’d like to apologize for how I spoke to you yesterday.” 

_ What? _

Ser Barristan continued to examine him, taking in Jon’s face and clothes, the tension in his body. He let go of Jon’s shoulder. “I assumed the worst, judged you on your name and record instead of the man you’d already demonstrated yourself to be.”

Shock coursed through Jon like he was standing under an icy cold shower. 

“And last night most men would not have hesitated to...take what was offered.” Ser Barristan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Daenerys has always done things her own way, but that has not always been to her benefit. I want the best for her, and she’s had little and less of that in recent years. I don’t expect you to forgive how I treated you, but I am sorry for it. You are your father’s son, honorable and honest. Any man using his eyes could have seen that.”

He loved her, Jon realized, like a father or an uncle or perhaps a grandfather. It shouldn’t have surprised him, knowing what he did of the old knight, of how faithfully he’d served the Targaryen dynasty for the past forty years. Ser Barristan had joined the royal guard, rising to a sworn shield for King Jaehaerys II when he was Jon’s age. Yet seeing that earnest adoration in his eyes, the fierce protectiveness from the night prior, Jon couldn’t fault him. Daenerys did deserve the best—a true happiness—and maybe, together…

_ Don’t get ahead of yourself, Snow. Even the fairy tales don’t pretend there’s hope for a bastard and a princess. _

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jon told him. 

They shook hands. 

Jon headed across the suite to the second bedroom—a mirror image of Daenerys’s except the bedding was a mossy green—and into the shower. He cleaned himself up, knotted his hair back into a bun, and joined Daenerys and Ser Barristan in the central room for breakfast. A smattering of croissants, pastries, and bagels filled a great basket on the table, along with an assortments of jams, butters, and fruits.

As soon as Daenerys saw him, her cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink. Bashfulness crashed over Jon like a tsunami.

“Hi.”

“Good morning, Jon Snow.” 

She kissed his cheek. Flustered, blushing so hot he thought his skin might melt, Jon busied himself with his food. 

They ate quickly, then departed for Winter Rose Orphanage. Outside, the world was a humid haze, patches of steamy fog stretching across the road. Jon sat in the back with Daenerys. Instead of making awkward conversation, she watched the tangled wilderness on the winding road that led to Greywater Watch, and then beyond to the orphanage on its western boundary.

Jon tried to do the same, but his eyes were drawn to her. To the pale shafts of sunlight glinting off her silver-gold hair, to the beauty of its golden rays lighting up the violet of her eyes. And more so, to the wonder in her smile as she watched the unfamiliar landscape drift past. His hand itched until he reached out and held hers again.

“It’s a sight, the Neck, the first time you see it.”

Daenerys turned to him as she threaded her fingers through his. “Like driving through a cloud. My brother’s always said the North was breathtaking. Bogs and mountains, swamps and moors. It reminds me of Dragonstone, how untouched it is.”

“Aye, there’s a reason we still keep the old nature gods in the North,” Jon said. “Life is simpler here, but beautiful, too.”

“I’m very glad to see it with you.”

Before them, the road widened and the gnarled trees and swamp fell away. A wild, unkempt field and garden climbed up around them as the orphanage’s gate came into view. Ser Barristan gave their credentials to the guard, then drove on as directed. Within minutes, the colossal stone fortress came into sight. Winter Rose Orphanage was built near the coast, at the western edge of Howland Reed’s lands. Most of the structure was built on an ancient castle’s foundations, long ago crumbled and half overgrown. His father and Howland had done the work to restore it, stone by stone, when Jon and Robb where little more than infants.

As Jon expected, only a dozen cars were parked in the circular drive. Howland’s event rarely drew a crowd. Most in attendance were local families or young adults who’d grown up here. His own father still contributed a hefty donation, but only made an appearance every few years. 

The field beside the great castle was filled with children of all ages, running and shouting. A game of football was in progress, along with a feeding and petting enclosure for the horses that Howland kept in his stables. This year even boasted an enormous bouncy castle filled with colorful balls. Daenerys took it all in as they climbed out of the car.

“It’s beautiful,” she decided, giving Jon a nervous smile as her eyes swept the field. “We should greet Lord Reed before mingling.”

They found Howland at the hedge’s only opening. Since Jon’s last visit, Howland’s blond hair had begun to gray. His ragged beard was more white than brown-blond, but his eyes were as bright and green as lily pads. He greeted Ser Barristan and Daenerys with the same warmth that always put Jon at ease.

“Ser Barristan, Princess Daenerys, it’s wonderful to have you. I can’t thank you enough on behalf of the kids. The girls have been holding quite an argument about if you’ll let them braid your hair, Princess. I see you’ve saved them the trouble.” 

Howland offered Daenerys her customary bow and hand kiss, then spotted Jon. His entire face lit up, and before Jon could blink, the shorter man had engulfed him in a tight hug. Jon returned the embrace, then let Howland take his face in hand. He and Father both made a habit of it, whenever they saw him.

“Let me look at you, lad.” Howland turned Jon’s face from side to side. “Few more scars, I see. Hair’s longer than a horse’s mane. Marcie will be thrilled. You should have said you were coming.”

“It wasn’t entirely planned,” Jon told him, glancing at Daenerys. She took Jon’s hand.

“Jon is here as my guest, Lord Reed. I hope that’s all right. He said you two are acquainted.”

Howland’s gaze lingered on their joined hands. He nodded after a moment, then smiled. “No doubt he told you I’ve got a monstrous hump, too.”

Daenerys looked aghast, but Jon only grinned. “I might have mentioned it.”

“Hmm, and a peg leg, wasn’t it?”

“Gnarled hands,” Jon corrected. “And a wart the size of a walnut.”

Howland rolled his eyes. “Getting mighty decrepit in my middling age, I see. Relax, my dear,” he said to Daenerys, who looked mortified at the drastic turn of the conversation. “It makes the children’s drawing contests more fun. Come now, let’s get you introduced.”

They passed into the garden. A wild, choppy hedge marked the perimeter. In the distance, Jon could just hear the crashing of the midday tide against the cliffside. A rowdy group of teenagers kicked a football back and forth at the field’s far edge. Even from there, Jon could just make out a few familiar faces. Meera, Howland’s daughter, along with her younger brother Jojen and several long term residents he’d met a few years before. Younger children gathered closer to the picnic area and the visiting families. A horde of screaming and laughing children ran past, dragging bubble wands through the air. One of the girls, however, nearly tripped herself when she spotted them.

She gaped at Jon, all missing teeth and freckles, her bubble wand falling to the ground.

“Hello Marcie.”

Her blue eyes were focused entirely on the knot of dark curls Jon had hoped to hide on the back of his head.

“Gods, your hair’s even more super long and super perfect for braiding.  _ Please let me braid it.” _

Marcie said the last part with half her fingers in her mouth as she hopped about in excitement. Howland shot Jon a grin and a wink.

“Told you she’d be pleased.”

A whole group of girls had stopped by Marcie now, whispering and pointing at Jon. He could feel a flush creeping up his neck as they eyed him like braiding-starved piranhas.

“Please, Mr. Jon.  _ Please _ .”

Jon knelt down before Marcie and gave her a serious look, resigned to his fate. “Have you been practicing every day?”

She nodded, then bit her lip. “Well, most days. I won’t rip any out this time, I promise. Jeyne’s hair’s almost as curly as yours and she says I don’t yank anymore.”

He held out his pinky. “Swear you’ll be as gentle as a lamb, Marcie Frostfang of Winter Rose.”

She squealed, then tried to collect herself for their pinky swear. With the most serious face a nine-year-old had every mustered, Marcie repeated his words. “I’ll be as gentle as a lamb, Mr. Jon.”

“Swear it on your pigtail braids, and Plaitrys, goddess of all braids every created.”

“I do, I do, I swear it.”

She was nearly vibrating when Jon released her finger. He glanced back at Howland, Daenerys, and Ser Barristan. “I’m afraid this is where I leave you. If I’m found baked into a plaited loaf of bread, please ship me home to my father.”

Marcie squealed again, and dragged him off to a picnic blanket. All around him, young girls and boys were deep in concentration as the braiding fest began. Half of them hustled over to watch Marcie’s show. He let them have their fun, playing along as the group of kids took votes on what braids to try, what flowers and ribbons to weave into his curls. After almost an hour, his scalp was sore. His hair was a chaos of braids all tangled up together with bright rainbow ribbons and blue pipe cleaners.

“You might be the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, Jon Snow.”

Daenerys smiled down at him, but the nervous glint was still in her eyes. She glanced at all the little, smiling faces, twisting her hands together. A hush fell over the kids. Marcie covered her mouth as she stage whispered in another girl’s ear.

“Have you ever seen braids like that? Those are so  _ cool _ .”

Daenerys kneeled carefully beside Jon. 

“Girls, this is Princess Daenerys, a good friend of mine,” Jon said, giving Daenerys’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “And I bet, she can teach you all kinds of new braids. Right, Daenerys?”

She offered the girls a tentative smile, then eased her own elaborate braid over her shoulder for them to examine. “This is a Dothraki-style braid,” she told them as Jon nodded encouragingly. “They take lots of braids and weave them all together to make one long one. Each one means something different.”

Several of the girls stroked the thick braid, but Marcie couldn’t contain herself. “Can you  _ please  _ show me how to do that?”

“Of course, but I’ll need a volunteer.” She glanced at Jon with a hopeful smile, but he stood up. 

“Oh, no, not me. I am sufficiently braided.” 

As the kids raised their hands and begged to be picked, Jon mouthed to her, “You’re doing great.” Then he pointed over his shoulder to where Howland was seated at a picnic table, watching the gathering closely. “I’ll be right there.”

Daenerys smiled as the girls waved their little hands, then pressed a finger to her lips, looking thoughtful. 

“Hmm, that’s a lot of ‘me’s’ to pick from. Maybe more than one demonstration is needed. It’s a very complicated braid. How does that sound?”

Jon watched for a moment longer, his heart thundering like a stampede somewhere in his throat. He turned back to the picnic tables and found Howland’s eyes on him. Without a word, Jon joined him.

For several moments, neither of them spoke. Jon accepted the offered cup of lemonade and kept his eyes on Daenerys and the swarm of little girls. Laughing and smiling, they made a pretty picture. The prettiest one Jon had seen in a long time.

“That’s a good look for you.” Howland pulled off the pipe cleaner curled around Jon’s ear. “I figured it was you who saved her in that fire.”

“Did you?”

“Hmm. That variety of impulsiveness has Jon Snow stamped all over it.” Howland chuckled as Jon rolled his eyes. “I get the feeling the name Daenerys Targaryen is right beside yours in that arena.”

Jon plucked a dozen flowers and pipe cleaners from his hair and braced himself for a scolding. He fiddled with them on his thigh for as long as he dared. Howland, however, watched Jon, an almost knowing curl to his lips.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Howland’s grin only widened, a row of crooked teeth poking out. 

“No, but you’re looking at me like… we had dinner, that’s all. She wanted to thank me when I wasn’t stuck in a hospital bed.”

“Oh? And dinner extends to the next day? Some new trend down in King’s Landing, is it?”

Jon flushed, caught. He unwound some of his looser braids, sliding the ribbons free, watching the crowd of girls around Daenerys, all starry-eyed and grinning. A whale might have fallen into his stomach with how heavy it suddenly felt.

“Nothing happened.” Jon frowned, his body tensing up all over again at the question he dreaded asking. “Are you going to tell Father?”

“Our definitions of nothing must be different then,” Howland mused, his gaze turning to Daenerys. “You don’t smile like that over nothing, Jon.” He poked Jon in the cheek, chuckling. “And you aren’t a little boy for Ned to keep in line anymore. I won’t tell him anything he doesn’t ask about.”

“Thanks. I don’t think he’d… when she called and invited me to dinner, he wasn’t thrilled,” Jon decided. “His bastard dining with a princess isn’t proper.”

“Did he say that?”

“No,” Jon admitted.  _ But his eyes did. _ “He looked more worried than someone running from an avalanche though.”

For just a moment, anger flashed in Howland’s eyes. Jon almost thought he’d imagined it.

“Jon, Ned’s been worrying about you since the day you were born. You were so sickly and tiny. Scared us both half to death for that month in the NICU. He’s never really learned how to stop worrying about you. Unfortunately, you’ve given him every reason to continue.” Howland squeezed Jon’s shoulder. “But don’t let his worries become yours. Your life is about  _ your _ choices. And, personally, I've found it's best to keep the goods things you find in life, Jon.”

Howland nodded toward the swarm of girls and Daenerys, who’d started a braiding train six heads deep. Jon smiled at the sight, at the rush of contentment Daenerys’s bright laugh brought him. 

“You think I should—that it’s okay—”

“What have I always told you, Jon? Don’t let something as silly as a name keep you from finding happiness. From living your best life. Happiness is rare enough in this life without you swerving to avoid it, hmm?”

His encouragement was like a zap of lightning down Jon’s spine. Ever since Daenerys’s call, he’d spent half his thoughts about her convincing himself that it was all a sham. A political stunt, perhaps, to better her hurt image. That absolutely nothing would come from it. But last night had tossed that idea out the car window, then reversed and driven over it. She felt something, too. Some unnamable, persistent tether that drew them together.

“I’ll try, Howland.”

 

* * *

 

Once the braiding party ended, Jon and Daenerys spent time with the other children. The teenagers playing their never-ending football game, the squealing kids in the bouncy castle, even the handful of toddlers penned off to keep them from wandering. One copper-headed boy was just learning to walk, a huge grin on his face as he wobbled back and forth between them like a young colt. They helped serve food, ate with Marcie and her friends, then helped Meera and Jojen Reed corral the horses back to the stables.

As Meera rode off on a inky black destrier, the sun dropping below the treeline, Jojen spoke in hushed whispers to the stable’s oldest horse, a winter gray palfrey. 

“I can’t believe she’s still going,” Jon remarked as Daenerys emptied the last feed bucket into a larger storage bin. “Gods, she must be near thirty.”

“Twenty-nine,” Jojen told him, rubbing the soft hair on the palfrey’s nose. “Half-blind these days, but nothing stops Winter.”

She whinnied, milky eyes focusing on Jon. With a rough nudge, Winter forced her face into Jon’s palm. 

“Hey, girl.” Jon stroked Winter’s forehead as Daenerys joined him.

“She’s yours?”

“No, but I learned to ride on her. Arya, too. My aunt had her before that.” 

“She loves Jon,” Jojen told them as he stacked food into a wheelbarrow. He shut the oats bin and hefted it onto a shoulder. “Used to follow him along the fence when we were younger.”

Daenerys rested her hand on Winter’s nose as the horse snorted and tried to mouth at Jon’s shirt.

“You’ve probably had a hundred carrots today.” Jon laughed as she continued to sniff and mouth at him. “No more, no, come on. Let’s get you back to the stables.”

As Jojen had said, Winter  _ did _ follow him. She trotted along beside Jon and Daenerys as they made for the stables. Meera was already gone when they arrived, the rest of the horses shut away in their stalls. 

Together, they led Winter into her stall and brushed her down. As Jon shut the door, Daenerys’s hand found his again. She took one look at him and laughed.

“What?”

“You’ve got a pipe cleaner just… there.”

Daenerys extracted what he hoped was the last miscellaneous object from his curls. She tucked it carefully into his front pocket, her hands lingering on his hips. 

“You’ve still got a few braids, too. Very rugged.”

Jon snorted, then froze as her hands skimmed up his chest and around his neck. He pulled her close before he could think better of it. Bodies flush together, Jon did the only thing that felt right in that instant. He kissed her.

Daenerys’s lips curved into a smile. His hands settled on her hips, their mouths slowly exploring. Tentative pressure, little puffs of breath as their lips parted, a soft, hopeful swipe of his tongue along her bottom lip. Jon groaned when she opened her mouth to him, a desperate flood of adrenaline roaring through him.

His body was determined to remind him of how neglectful he’d been. One kiss should not send a spiral of lust and desire to his gut; shouldn’t make him half-hard in his jeans or daydreaming about how soft her skin was sure to be under the smooth fabric of her dress. But two years was a long time. Jon couldn’t even recall the last time he’d pleasured himself.

Someone cleared their throat. Jon jumped away from her. Jojen had arrived, his wheelbarrow of oats and carrots in tow. He gave Jon a wink as Daenerys led him past and back to the remnants of the fundraiser. Ser Barristan was waiting for them.

“Princess, you shouldn't wander.”

“I was helping with the horses,” Daenerys told him. “Come, we must thank our host.”

Howland gave both of them a hug, and thanked Daenerys once more for the royal family’s donation and interest. The drive back to the hotel seemed to fly by as an orange dusk glowed on the horizon. Ser Barristan led them upstairs to the room, doing a quick sweep of the suite before Daenerys entered.

“Princess, if it’s fine with you, I should like to clean up for the evening.”

“Of course.”

The old knight gave them a look before he disappeared into his room. They were alone then, Daenerys sliding her shoes off and plucking her earrings out. He had half a mind to help her, to unwind that complicated braid and taste her lovely plush lips again. Or her skin, from her neck to her belly. To back her up against the wall or into her room and—

Jon swallowed.

“I should get going. Robb probably thinks I’ve wrecked his car in the swamp somewhere.”

“Oh, of course.”

“I’ll just grab my phone then.”

But his thundering heartbeat left him rooted to the carpet. Her eyes gleamed as she stepped closer, not the sharp lingering looks when she’d first kissed him last night, but something much heavier and sincere.

“Thank you for all of this, Daenerys. It’s been… being here with you has been wonderful.”

“Call me Dany.” 

She was so close he could see the hues of violet, indigo, and palest blue of her irises. Saying goodbye felt impossibly foolish. Nothing had ever felt so raw and delightful and heady. 

_ It’s just lust. Just a mountain of lust from years without so much as a kiss. Don’t be a fool, Snow. _

But Howland’s voice was there now, too, countering his own melancholy. 

_ Don’t run from happiness. _

Their lips crashed together, noses bumping as they stumbled into her bedroom. The door snapped shut behind them. He wasn’t sure who closed it. Her fingers tangled into his curls, tugging his mouth down to hers. His face burned at her feverish kisses, at the rush of need that exploded in his chest. Jon sucked at her bottom lip, teasing the plump flesh with his teeth as they tumbled onto the bed.

He lost himself in her taste. Let himself give into every suppressed urge pounding through his body. Somehow, Jon found himself on top of her, his hair a mess, his breathing erratic as she met his grinding hips with sharp rocks of her own. His cock throbbed against her thigh, straining painfully against his zipper. Dany mumbled his name, her voice soft and breathy, a welcome invitation as her fingers teased the waistband of his jeans. 

Jon almost came right then. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find some shred of control. Then forced his hips up, taking his weight off her and onto his forearms instead.

“Jon?”

Dany’s fingers stroked his jaw, his cheek. Their foreheads met as Jon tried to steady his breathing enough to speak.

“We should, uh,  _ gods _ .” His cock gave a nasty, demanding throb. “Let’s cool off.”

“Oh.” 

A lilt of disappointment hung heavy in her voice. Jon opened his eyes and found her own were hooded, but confused. Her lips kiss swollen, her chin a little red from the rough scratch of his beard. She looked a beautiful wreck, dazed and flushed, her pupils wide and dark. He swallowed at the sight, then glanced down and found her breasts half out of her dress. A sharp impulse drilled into him to rip the damned, useless dress off her, to tease her nipples to stiff peaks until she was wailing and keening beneath him. To have her in every filthy way he could imagine—on the bed, the floor, the wall, burying himself in her heat until she shattered around him, over and over. Jon took a deep breath and stared at her left ear.

“Do you want to go?”

Dany rubbed his neck. He opened his mouth to tell her it was probably for the best. That he ought to leave. That Robb needed his stupid car back. That their families would never condone the last joyful twenty-four hours they’d shared.

“No.” Another surge of blood pooled hot in his belly. His hand skim over her bare arm to her rumpled shoulder strap, to the heaving curves of her breasts trying to push free. Dany shivered. “I want to stay. If you want me to.”

“I do.” 

Dany leaned up and kissed him hard. Her fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans until she got them open. Jon shuddered, groaning so deep he felt it vibrate in his chest. The strain of his cock pushed his zipper down, and Dany shoved his jeans down his hips a few inches. Her leg that he’d been rutting against shifted until his hips were slotted between hers thighs. He thrust down, a hot pulse rushing through him even with his boxer-briefs and her rumpled dress still in the way. That was enough for now. Perhaps too much with the way his body shook.

Then Dany’s hands slid under the waistband of his underwear, each hand clutching his ass, her nails a sharp sting of delightful pain. His hips snapped down. He grinded mindlessly against her heat, his bones molten and loose, his chest heaving for air 

Jon tried to focus. Tried to ignore the exquisite pressure of her against him, the hard rolling of her hips as they panted against each other. Her hands urged him down, over and over, until he couldn’t manage more than a fumbling gasp that might have passed for a kiss. He jerked his hips away, balls tightening, just before he tipped over the edge.

His lips ghosted over her cheek, sucking down her neck, then her shoulder. He bit the thin skin over her collarbone, then nipped her jawline.

“Can I taste you?”

A skeptical crease appeared on her forehead, but Dany nodded. Like him, she was winded, looking like crackles of electricity were sparking all over her skin.

“Okay, but then…”

_ I can’t ‘but then’ _ .  _ One touch and I’ll explode like a boy who just discovered his cock’s not only for pissing. _

He tried to distract himself from that, from the angry way his cock throbbed as he slid down the bed. A few sucks and nips at her throat again, another at the swell of breast just peaking above her dress. Jon shoved himself down the bed and pushed her dress up to her waist. Her lilac panties clung to her drenched cunt. He swirled the tip of his tongue over her soft belly, bit at the little presses of her hip bones, then pulled her panties down her legs. 

“Gods.” 

He huffed a warm breath over her cunt that made Dany jolt under him. Her smooth lips were slick with her arousal, patch of silver-gold curls above her clit was soft and trimmed. He pushed her firm thighs wide with his hands, then swiped his tongue over her. Dany whimpered, her hips jerking against his grasp. Jon gave in then. He pressed her thighs back toward her chest, her hips rising up to meet his eager mouth. She cried out as he sealed his lips over her cunt. He flicked his tongue against her clit, gave it a greedy suck, then pressed the flat of his tongue against it.

“Jon, that’s— _ oh _ .”

Her hands scrambled for something to hold, her thighs fighting weakly against his grip. Chest heaving, Dany mumbled nonsense above him, panting and moaning, then crying out as he pushed his tongue into her tightness. Jon gave her a few shallow strokes, then dragged his tongue up her slit. He inhaled the tart scent of her arousal, moaning against her. Quakes shivered through her thighs as he sucked her clit into his mouth. Her body went stiff, her head thrown back, and then he felt the wet rush of warmth on his lips and chin. Jon lapped up her arousal as she came, releasing her legs and instead cupping her ass, so she couldn’t wrench herself away. Her broken cry echoed around the room.

“Jon!”

He eased her through the fluttering of her belly, the jerking thrusts of her hips against his face, the clenching of her fists on the blankets. She was still mumbling his name when he crawled up her body. Sweat dotted her neck and face, her eyes hazy.

“Okay?”

“Gods, Jon Snow. That…” She shuddered. “Wow.”

Jon kissed her, slow and open-mouthed, tracing his tongue over her lips. His own body gave a sharp jerk when her fingertips brushed the skin of his lower back. He bowed into her touch, his spine curling as his cock ached for release.

“Are you close?”

Jon could only nod. Dany offered him a sleepy smile, hooked her fingers into his belt loops, and rolled them over. She hovered over his thighs, then slowly cupped him through his underwear. Jon whimpered, his eyes shut tight at the heat of her hand. Her finger plucked at his waistband.

“I want to taste you, too.”

“I’m not going to last long.”

“Good.”

She reached into his underwear and pulled his cock free. He nearly wept at the softness of her hand, at her firm grip and the way she watched his reaction as she gave him one slow stroke. Her lips closed over his swollen head and Jon was gone. Two hard sucks and he spilled down her throat, gasping and shaking, as she swallowed around him.

Jon half blacked out. Bursts of light dotted his vision as Dany shifted around him. She tucked him back into his underwear, did up his jeans. A soft kiss brushed his cheek, and he let out the goofiest laugh then, stupid with the waves of relief washing over him. Her head settled on his chest, her body curling into his side as his eyes drifted shut.

Sometime later, he woke to the thunderous sound of a downpour. Deep darkness filled the room, his eyes gummy and his body heavy with contentment. Overhead, the rain drummed the roof, rapid and hard, like magnified radio stack. Daenerys was a furnace against his left side, his arm curled tight around her waist. At some point, she’d woken and changed into her pyjamas and found a blanket to drape over them. Jon nudged his feet free of the warmth, wondering when exactly his boots had been removed.

Dany shifted against him, a slow huff of breathe damp on his neck as thunder crackled outside. Rain washed down the windows in the flash of lightning that followed.

“I love waking up to a storm.” She was barely whispering, but this close her voice seemed a part of his very skin. “All toasty in bed as the sky opens up.”

Jon hummed and stroked her side with his thumb. “Me, too. It’s nice, just listening to it. Soothing.”

She kissed his throat. “On Dragonstone it rains like this all winter. Most of autumn, too. Maybe… maybe you can come see it some time with me. It’s my favorite place.”

“I’d love that.” Jon held her closer, and kissed the top of her head. Shut his eyes. “I hope we spend many more nights just like this.”

“Me, too.”

They lay there in the dark for a long time, listening to the storm’s rage. The rain hammering the roof above them, the gusts of wind that slapped sheets of water against the windows, even the metallic pings in the wall behind them as a leak dripped onto a pipe. 

Peace Jon had seen but never known wrapped itself around him like a cacoon. Not in the quiet nights with Val after hours of urgent fucking to chase their hardships away. And not with Ygritte either, though he’d spent nights beyond count beside her, from boot camp until they’d shipped off to war. Not even as a boy in Winterfell castle had Jon ever felt so calm. So certain that his world—all he needed and wanted—was with him in that moment.

Ser Barristan woke them next, in the gray haze of pre-dawn. 

“Princess, we need to get going soon if we’re to make King’s Landing for Her Grace’s dinner reception tonight.”

With a lot of mumbling and eye rubbing, Dany got out of bed. Jon did the same. His boots were by the door and his phone where he’d left it on the desk. He tucked it into his pocket and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Dany returned, dressed and puffy-eyed. Jon watched her packed her few belongings into her suitcase and roll it into the living room. Ser Barristan was waiting.

She bit her lip. “I suppose this is goodbye.” 

Jon swallowed down the lump in his throat. 

“Can I see you again?” 

He shouldn’t ask it of her. Had no right to be near her or kiss her or hold her through the night, to experience anything with her like they had. But he wanted it, wanted to see where this bubbling hope led, how easy it could be to lose himself with her—to find out who he could be when he emerged on the other side.

Her smile was answer enough. A few halting steps and they were chest to chest in a tight embrace. 

Dany tucked her face against his neck. “I’ll miss you, Jon Snow.”

“You, too.” Jon kissed her temple and met Ser Barristan’s eyes behind her. The old knight offered him a single nod like a silent promise.

She was gone then. Her lavender perfume still fragrant in the air, her warmth bleeding through his shirt to soak his skin. Jon waited a few minutes before departing. His phone pinged wildly as soon as he plugged it into the car charger. He scrolled through a flurry of texts and missed calls, most from Robb, but a few from other people—Arya, Tormund, Davos. Jon dropped his phone on the passenger seat and headed back to Robb’s.

He found the two-storey brick farmhouse silent and dark as the horizon faded to a bruised purple. Ghost and Grey Wind greeted him at the door, snuffling at his clothes and wagging their shaggy tails. Robb and Margaery were still asleep. Neither had anywhere to be for hours, especially on a Sunday.

Jon snuck toward the kitchen, the floor creaking underfoot, tugged the refrigerator door open, and yelped.

Robb was leaning against the counter in the halo of artificial light, munching on a glazed doughnut.

“Another five hours and I was going to tell Theon.” He slid an open box of fresh doughnuts toward Jon. “Details, little brother. How’s your fairy princess?”

“She isn’t—why are you up?”

“Stop deflecting, you’ve been gone for,” Robb checked his watch, “thirty-five hours and seventeen minutes. Spill.”

Jon huffed in disbelief. “There’s nothing to—”

Robb held his phone screen up, a blurry picture coming into focus. Him and Dany, wrapped up in each other, kissing deeply in Howland Reed’s stable. Jon swallowed down a bitter tang of worry. Somehow, despite no reporters being present, the press had found out. And Daenerys wouldn’t know until she landed in King’s Landing to paparazzi hounding her.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Don’t look so worried. There’s nothing in the news yet.” Robb set his phone on the counter and pushed the doughnut box against Jon’s elbow. “Have one, would you?” 

Relieved, Jon picked a powdered doughnut and shoved half of it into his mouth. They took seats on the barstools at the island. 

“Who then?”

“Bran. Jojen texted it to him with a bunch of heart eyes.”

“Those little shits.” Jon gritted his teeth. Already, their secret was out, even though he wasn’t quite sure what to call their relationship yet. They hadn’t discussed it. Everything was too new, too sudden and fumbling for him to get his head around it all. He couldn’t even call her since members of the royal family weren’t allowed personal phones.

“Better me than Theon.”

That was only too true. Their foster brother would have printed a thousand copies and handed them out on a street corner.

“So?”

Jon hesitated.

“Come on, Jon, you spent two nights with her. Don’t tell me  _ nothing _ happened.”

“We just talked. Like goofy kids at a sleepover,” Jon said. “Got to know each other a bit. It was… nice.”

“Both nights?”

Jon blushed as Robb laughed.

“About time you had a good fuck.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jon snapped. “She isn’t—we aren’t—”

Robb forced a jam-filled doughnut into Jon’s hand. 

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. You think Margaery and I just make boring love all the time? We fuck more often than not.” Robb shrugged. “So you and Daenerys… ?”

“We were intimate,” Jon decided. “That’s all I’m saying about it. What happens between me and Dany is private.”

“Dany?”

Jon ate his doughnut instead of answering. He had three more as Ghost and Grey Wind piled up on the floor at their feet. Overhead, he heard the padding of Margaery’s feet on the hardwood. Outside the sun was rising.

When he finally met his brother’s eyes, he found them bright and hopeful, if not a little worried. It was a look he’d only seen once before, near five years past, when Robb had cornered him in their platoon’s barrack. Back then, Robb had only wanted a confession about him and Ygritte and the precarious position of a secret relationship between fellow soldiers. That look, though… 

“I’ve never met anyone who just  _ gets _ how it feels to be told you have a place but to never feel like you actually belong there.” Jon laughed as a pleasant, warm bubble swelled in his chest. Not even Ygritte’s memory could dampen it. “She’s worth it, Robb. All the press and cameras and whatever else they want to hit me with can’t change that.”

Robb squeezed Jon’s bicep and then raised a doughnut toward him. Jon grabbed his own and they clinked them together like wine glasses.

“Your secret’s safe with me, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Hopefully, it was good?
> 
> We'll be changing directions a bit for the next few chapters. Starting with a Tyrion POV, then Ned(!) and probably Arya before returning to the lovebirds. I'm expecting the not-Jon/Dany POV chapters to be shorter, so with any luck they'll be up quicker. 
> 
> As a heads up, I will be taking a short break from this to write the last chapter for Don't Wake the Dragon, but then it's back to this one! I've got a dozen other ideas hanging out, so I may start posting one of those alongside this. A Targaryens Win AU or maybe some alternate War of the Dawn ending fics, or future fics with Jon, Dany, and a smattering of Targlings :) 
> 
> Time will tell! Thanks for reading!


	6. TYRION I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like it when updates happen quicker than planned.
> 
> This one's less wordy, as I expected, but it's time for some Tyrion POV! Enjoy!

Summer scorched the air. 

Strands of sunlight glinted off the windows as Tyrion entered his chambers. Light scattered around the room, a kaleidoscope of golden heat and sparkling white. Despite leaving his windows shut and the blinds drawn, he was not surprised to find them open. He set his files upon his desk and squinted into the blinding brightness.

“Good news, I hope.”

A soft chuckle greeted him. Lord Varys stepped into a spot of shade, his customary tablet in hand. He favored the more comfortable, flowing, ancestral robes of the Free Cities, and in this weather, Tyrion envied him. His own stiff collar and slacks stuck to his sweaty skin.

“Our princess did well, from what little news has trickled out of the Neck.” 

Varys offered him a quick glance of his tablet screen. 

An article from an obscure news outlet near Greywatch Watch. Nothing fancy. A simple stock photo of the renovated castle-orphanage and a short write-up on the fundraiser. Daenerys was mentioned in passing, but that was it. Tyrion breathed a little easier then. Lord Reed’s fundraiser was a small function, not on the radar of southern lords and ladies. Most northerners ignored it as well. 

Half the country would shrill and rail against the place if Howland Reed didn’t keep to himself. Few people took a vested interested in wildling orphans. Though, orphan was hardly a true moniker for most of them. Children stolen from people imprisoned was far more accurate.

“No mentions of the Starks, I see.”

_ Or Jon Snow, thank the gods. _

When the suggestion of Daenerys visiting Lord Reed had been been brought to the table, Tyrion had been skeptical. She’d needed a positive boost to her image, of course. Late summer lacked any major events, but after that blasted fire and Naharis’s illegal activities scandal, they’d needed something. The month leading up to the Unification Day celebration was for finalizing events, not attending them. Lord Reed’s fundraiser was near the only option available that could create a kindly view, but placing Daenerys too close to the North—to a trail that might lead her too close to Jon Snow—had been worrisome. 

Tyrion had grinded half his teeth to nervy nubs awaiting news.

“No. Lord Stark rarely attends these days,” Varys said. He cradled his tablet in his arms, brushing his finger over the screen as he scrolled. “My contact at  _ The King’s Landing Report _ office is ready. We’ll collect a few details from Daenerys for a short write-up they’ll release tomor—”

Varys froze. His brow furrowed. 

It was like a pufferfish had ballooned in Tyrion’s gut. He’d seen that look far too much since Queen Rhaella had hired him as Daenerys’s advisor. A dreaded look followed by anticipation, stress-induced diarrhea, and flood-levels of perspiring. In the last six years, he’d gone from a morose divorcee to an anxiety-ridden political strategist chasing after a princess who kept making all the wrong decisions.

“What?”

“Jon Snow’s identity has been leaked.”

A trickle of uncertainty ran down Tyrion’s spine. That was not news. Not for him and Varys. Ever since the man had rescued Daenerys, he and Varys had been planning for the eventual reveal. He’d even gotten the local law enforcement prepared for the paparazzi that would crowd Snow’s fire station, block half the street, and generally be a safety hindrance and nuisance. Bronn hadn’t liked it, but he’d agreed.

“Who?”

“Littlefinger.” Varys scrolled furiously, his frown deepening. “Oh, dear.”

“What’s that damn leech done now?”

“Bought the little bird I sent to the fundraiser, if I had to guess.” Varys tutted and scrolled. “No pictures at least. Lord Reed did not permit cell phones at the event, but  _ Mockingbird Daily _ still has its gossip.”

“Gossip? Varys, what the hell has he published?”

“It seems Jon Snow was in attendance at Winter Rose Orphanage,” Varys told him. “As Daenerys’s guest.”

“She would not be that stupid.”

But the same aching dread he’d carried since Daenerys had left overcame him like a tsunami. 

Silently, Varys handed over his tablet and Tyrion read it for himself. As always, Petyr Baelish’s gossip column was more clickbait than facts. His “shocking reveal” amounted to very little. Princess Daenerys’s rescuer was Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s illegitimate son, and the two had been spotted together at the fundraiser. Still, the rumor mills of King’s Landing would be on fire by tomorrow morning. He’d picked the worst time, as Baelish always did.

Even with no picture, Tyrion was certain of one fact: Daenerys had invited Jon Snow without telling anyone.

Without telling  _ him _ .

He snarled and tossed the tablet onto his desk. Varys scooped it up like a baby that had just fallen off a couch.

“Damn her.” 

“Damage control is still possible. We’ll need to issue an official statement by tomorrow morning.”

_ At the latest. Gods, Daenerys, can we not have a single week without one of your half-brewed disasters? _

Someone knocked on the door. He shut his eyes and tried to flattened his temper. Daenerys’s new International Relations Specialist had arrived for her first day. 

_ And probably her last _ . _ Perhaps, we can find a moldy apartment to squat in when we’re both jobless next week. _

He opened the door. 

Missandei beamed, enthusiasm radiating from her in waves. She was young, perhaps too young for the job he’d hired her for. At nineteen, the brilliant college graduate was a fresh face in the realm of international politics. Her intellect and academic history, however, were stellar. A high school graduate at fifteen from the most prestigious private school in her home country, Naath. An undergraduate degree from an esteemed university in Pentos, and two master’s degrees in international diplomacy and linguistics from Braavos. She was progressive and proactive. A champion of human rights and an activist throughout her years in college. A positive influence, Tyrion hoped. Someone who could remind Daenerys of her own power and potential, and guide her back onto a good path.

Nobody else would have taken a chance on Missandei. Not with a dynasty’s future at stake. In truth, Tyrion dreaded the day Queen Rhaella called him to her office to explain the choice. But she was the best, and the best for Daenerys. She was mature, capable, and sharp. More importantly, she was Daenerys’s age. Someone who may grow to be a friend, which Daenerys sorely lacked. In the six years Tyrion had been her advisor, he’d yet to meet one true friend of Daenerys.

“Missandei, welcome.”

Tyrion tried to smile for her benefit. Her first impression should not be this. He’d planned a wonderful, informative tour of the castle followed by Daenerys’s arrival and tea so the pair could meet.  

But Missandei was not fooled. She took one look at each of their faces and shut the door behind her.

“I take it we have more important matters to address than the promised tour.”

Varys offered her the tablet. 

As she read, Tyrion paced his office, his mind churning out as many alternatives for the next twenty-four hours as he could.

Daenerys was expected within the hour at the royal airstrip. Another thirty minutes for the drive to the Red Keep. Sunday traffic was light, which worked in their favor. They could collect a few quotes from her, then send them to be included in tomorrow’s article. Perhaps make it a rush job for tonight’s televised reports. They needed to get ahead of this before it erupted.

A simple story would work best. She’d spent a day playing with poor orphans. At an orphanage partially maintained and funded by Jon Snow’s father. His being there could be spun as a simple coincidence. Having saved her life only a few weeks ago, it was natural for the two to greet each other, to socialize if they found themselves at the same event. With no pictures, the story would be whatever Daenerys made it.

_ And whatever Jon Snow makes it. _

He glanced at Varys, who seemed to understand. Their spymaster shook his head, and Tyrion relaxed some. Jon Snow had not returned to work, nor been seen returning to his apartment in Flea Bottom. When he did, they would know.

“A gossip article,” Missandei concluded. She handed Varys his tablet and paced the same path Tyrion had, her golden eyes thoughtful. “Has anyone else gotten wind of this yet?”

“No.” Varys continued to scroll and tap, checking every site in real-time. “But tonight’s televised news will surely make note. We’ll need to provide them with a statement.”

“And the comments?” Tyrion asked, trying not to wince. 

Littlefinger’s gossip site was made worse by the unmonitored comments section. Whenever one of his articles trended, it was arguments in the comments that blew it up. 

Varys hummed as he scrolled, far more at ease than Tyrion cared to see. “Two so far. One asking for a picture of Jon Snow, and the other claiming first comment.”

And they’d find a picture, once enough people were involved. He might have an incredibly common name, but Jon Snow’s face would not stay hidden for long. His firefighter’s portrait, or one from his army days, or even one from an old yearbook. Maybe even an old news story from a previous fire rescue.

_ Your life is about to become miserable, Jon Snow. Unless you’re just a walking cock looking for a few minutes of fame. _

With how bruised Daenerys’s public image was at present, it would not take much to turn her to cinders. The Jon Snow Tyrion recalled had been a scrawny boy of fourteen. Sullen and brooding, but honest. Nine years was a long time, though, and Jon Snow had seen three years at the Wall and two tours in the Smoking Sea War since they’d met.

_ Was this just another fling, Daenerys? Do you have any idea the damage Jon Snow could do with a single word? _

“When does Princess Daenerys arrive?”

Tyrion checked his watch. “An hour at most.”

Missandei nodded. “So… who  _ is _ Jon Snow exactly?”

Tyrion offered her a seat on his worn, leather couch and, with Varys’s help, explained the last few disastrous weeks. Missandei was an attentive listener. By the time Tyrion was finished, a sense of relief filled him. Even if Missandei and Daenerys did not become friends as he hoped, he’d at least have another advisor with which to muddle through Daenerys’s impulsive decisions.

“Okay, mostly positive.” Missandei tapped her fingers on her thighs. “We can spin this a number of ways depending on what happened and what she’s comfortable saying. A showing of thanks to her rescuer. Or simple happenstance. Or a quaint outing with a potential suitor. Do you know the nature of their relationship beyond that hospital visit?”

As far as Tyrion knew, they’d had no relationship  _ since _ the hospital visit. Somehow, he suspected Ser Barristan’s view was different. The old knight was sworn to keep Daenerys’s secrets, however. If Daenerys had planned this in some way, and he would stake his life that she had, then Ser Barristan was a part of it.

_ I need a drink. _

“No,” he admitted. “And the last one is ludicrous. Jon Snow is not a potential suitor.”

The very idea was laughable. 

Missandei frowned at him, confused. “But… forgive me, Lord Tyrion, I’m not as accustomed with Westerosi social structures as I could be. Jon Snow is a lord’s son. The Starks hold one of the most ancient and reputable lineages in Westeros. Does that not qualify Jon Snow has a good potential match for Princess Daenerys?”

Her logic was exasperating. Simple, articulate, and damnably true. 

At least, a true enough possibility under the Queen’s social upheaval of the last decade. Her reforms had been swift and brutal to a number of ancient customs the high lords and previous kings had upheld. Rhaella Targaryen was the first queen to rule in her own name. After the death of her insane brother-husband almost seventeen years ago, she’d quickly instilled herself as a stern, but fair ruler. Her first official order had been to end the remaining laws that pushed royal children into arranged marriages, along with the more incestuous law that had forced her to marry her brother. 

Targaryens were known for their sibling marriages. For attempting to keep their bloodlines pure to preserve the magic of their ancestors. But dragons had died out long ago. Both Rhaegar and Daenerys were allowed to pursue whomever they wished, but at least one of them would be obligated to marry and continue the bloodline. Twenty-three years ago, Rhaegar had been the likeliest to continue the Targaryen name. But he’d never remarried after the deaths of his wife and children. Never gone on a single date as far as Tyrion knew.

After the fallout of his own, youthful marriage, Tyrion couldn’t blame him. 

But Rhaegar’s decision had forced that path on another. With Viserys deemed as insane as the Mad King and locked away in Harrenhal, the task of ensuring the Targaryen dynasty lived on had passed to Daenerys. 

“It does,” Tyrion agreed, trying to keep the reluctance from his tone. Varys’s simpering little smile did not help. “Queen Rhaella made it law that all future Targaryen heirs would be allowed to pursue a spouse of their own choosing. But, Jon Snow is not a Stark, Missandei. Our high lords and ladies will still have certain expectations of her marriage. Jon carries an illegitimate name, that makes him… less suitable.”

“We have no concept of bastardy in Naath,” Missandei told him. “Children are loved no matter the circumstances of their conception or birth. It’s such an odd belief, isn’t it? To base someone’s value and worth on something they cannot control.”

A knife in his guts would have been less painful. Tyrion flinched despite himself, his father’s cold face wafting into the air before him. Tywin Lannister had been one such man. Cruel, cold, calculating. Having a dwarf for a son had been the greatest travesty of his life. No matter how Tyrion had tried, only his brother Jaime had ever loved him.

“A dying belief,” Tyrion said finally. “Our Dornish province has recently passed a law allowed children born out of wedlock to assume their mother’s surname. I believe they’re reviewing a bill to allow the father’s name, too, without much traction. A lot of the old stigma is dying out with the younger generation, but… a man named Snow as a suitor for our only royal princess may be too much, too fast.”

Missandei considered him. “Perhaps.” She brushed one of her curls from her eyes. “I think it’s time I met Princess Daenerys. We can ask her for an explanation, and go from there.”

She was far too chipper about this. Varys, too. Tyrion walked them out, giving Missandei a brief tour of the wing where she would live, and the royal keep where the royal family was housed. At some point, Varys faded away behind them. They arrived in the entrance hall of Maegor’s holdfast, the protected royal castle within the larger fortress, just as Princess Daenerys and Ser Barristan were ushered inside.

Every guard dropped to a knee around the room. Daenerys was quick to order them to rise. Unlike her mother and brother, she’d always made a point of vocally telling the guards to stand. She’d forbidden Tyrion from kneeling to her at all, once she’d realized how painful it was on his ill-formed knees. Tyrion still hadn’t decided if that was for better or worse. A departure from the historic royal norm, certainly. The Queen and prince ignored the guards entirely. Her Majesty swept into a room and then out without so much as a glance at any of them. Prince Rhaegar was not much different.

“Princess, welcome home.”

One glance at Daenerys’s smile and Tyrion didn’t need to ask any questions of her weekend. Her face was flushed and bright, her smile glowing. Seeing Jon Snow had been as intentional as breathing.

“Lord Tyrion, thank you.” Daenerys looked past him at Missandei. 

Tyrion ushered her forward for introductions. “Princess, may I introduce your new International Relations Specialist, Missandei.”

The two women shook hands.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Missandei. My apologies for not being available for your final interview as intended. How are you finding King’s Landing?”

Ser Barristan passed their luggage off to one of the household guards, but the old knight would not meet Tyrion’s eyes. Guilty as sure as silk was soft. Far more than he’d expected, but Tyrion let it go for the moment as he escorted their group into an solar off the main hall. Refreshments were brought in, and for a time, Tyrion let Missandei and Daenerys get acquainted. Until Varys rejoined them, his tablet in his arms. His pointed look brought the conversation to a halt.

“Princess, how was the fundraiser?”

Instead of her smile fading, a lightness seemed to sweep over Daenerys. She looked happier than Tyrion had ever seen her. Then her guard went up, a protectiveness creeping into her features.

“It was enjoyable,” Daenerys said. “The children were lovely, well taken care of and well-mannered. I wish there was more we could do for them. Lord Reed said he had little trouble caring for them, but a lot of issues with finding families to adopt, and finding resources to help the children that lived there through high school.”

“Something to consider,” Varys offered. “A platform for you to focus on in the coming year.”

She nodded, considering, pensive. If Tyrion hadn’t been so rushed to get the scoop on her secret Jon Snow meeting, he would have been delighted to see that look.

“And Jon Snow?”

Daenerys almost dropped her tea. She took a deep breath, then set the cup down.

“What about him?”

Again, not the response Tyrion had expected. She closed off further, far more cautious than he’d ever seen her. Almost… shy. With Daario Naharis, Daenerys had been an open book. A sexual relationship, Tyrion knew, no matter what she’d convinced herself otherwise. There’d been nothing to hide between them, not from Tyrion at least. The press, however, had been another matter.

“Daenerys, we know he was at the fundraiser.”

Varys stepped forward then. “A leak, Princess. No pictures at present, but one outlet has confirmed his identity as your rescuer in the fire and connected him as an attendant yesterday. We need to release a statement.”

Without prompting, Daenerys understood. She didn’t jump to defend herself or deny anything. Instead she took a minute to consider her words before answering.

“Jon Snow was my invited guest at Lord Reed’s event, Tyrion. He… he’s a remarkable man, and I intend to see him again. I trust him.”

_ You trusted Daario, too, and see where that ended. _

Tyrion sighed. Dissuading her had never worked before. He doubted it would do more than turn the steely glint in her eyes to hot coals. “When?”

“I’m not sure yet. Once he’s returned to the capitol, but we didn’t discuss particulars.”

Tyrion took in Missandei’s thoughtful eyes, Varys’s lack of surprise, and Ser Barristan’s calm expression. Somehow, his look explained more than Daenerys’s words did.

“Princess, perhaps—”

“This is my decision, Lord Tyrion. I will see him again, with or without your support. Now, please, excuse me, I need to prepare for tonight’s dinner reception. Missandei, it was lovely to meet you. I hope we’ll work well together in the coming years.”

She left before Tyrion could think of a reply. Ser Barristan turned to follow.

“A moment, Ser Barristan, if you please.”

Daenerys’s sworn shield motioned for one of the guards at the doorway to trail her. He offered Tyrion that guilty glance again.

“Is there something you require, my lord?”

“Nothing taxing,” Tyrion told him, pouring a healthy glass of wine. He took a sip and sighed. “Just a more neutral accounting of this weekend.”

Ser Barristan scrutinized him for a long moment. 

“They had a planned dinner together. Him attending the fundraiser was not.”

Tyrion didn’t miss the ordering of those events.

_ A night together in a hotel room, near enough alone. How Ser Barristan’s ears don’t bleed, I’ll never know. _

Unfortunately, that also meant—regardless of what had occurred—Jon Snow had everything he could ask for to end Daenerys’s claim to the throne for good. 

“And Jon Snow?”

Ser Barristan hesitated, glancing back at the open doorway as if he expected Daenerys to reappear. When she didn’t, he said, “She is not wrong to trust him, Tyrion, whatever you may think. Jon  _ is _ a good man. He demonstrated such in that fire and countless times over the last two days. Seeing him again… I think he’s good for Daenerys.”

Ser Barristan bowed his head and left. 

Tyrion gulped down his wine as Varys and Missandei continued to discuss the crown’s statement for that night’s news. They’d see what became of it all in the morning. If Jon Snow kept his silence as the week wore on, and if he could handle a swarm of paparazzi at his work and home. Having Ser Barristan’s glowing review certainly helped. Daenerys’s words had been more wind after the Daario fiasco, but her demeanor was stone. He’d not seen more than brief bursts of that considering, contemplative princess since he’d become her advisor.

He glanced at Missandei, wondering.

Jon Snow was the right age, just shy of twenty-three. Raised by a high lord in a castle, a decorated soldier, and a humble man in a rather thankless, but selfless, profession. A servant of the people and of Westeros was something Tyrion could sell.

And Jon Snow  _ did _ appear to be humble. Despite Tyrion’s worries, and the reporters clambering to discover his identity, the boy had not come forward since the fire. He’d done his best to stay out of the spotlight. Most men would not have.

_ Can you handle the spotlight now it’s on you? Or are your eyes too sensitive, Jon Snow? Will you tuck tail and run? _

But if he proved capable…

“Varys, once you’ve contacted the press, add a guest slot for the Unification Day celebration. Perhaps, Missandei has the right of this. If Jon Snow manages to survive the avalanche coming for him, he may be interested in spending the holiday on Dragonstone, as Daenerys’s personal guest. We’ll monitor the situation closely as it evolves.”

Varys bowed and departed. Missandei smiled, looking pleased at his decision. So far, she’d proven quite an asset on her first day. A non-Westerosi perspective might be more beneficial than he’d originally thought. Tyrion poured himself a second glass.

_ You’re in the game now, Jon Snow. Let’s see if you can play. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -slow, sensual wiggle into view- 
> 
> Well, that's all this round, my dudes. Missandei has arrived to bring friendship and awesome.
> 
> Our super secretive Ned is up next, to do some revealing. Then my favorite little night wolf, Arya, for a Stark-Snow nameday bash. Then back to Dany, followed by Rhaegar, unless I have my facts wrong. I've been reworking a little, and shifting things about, as this modern Westeros world-building snowballs. Hopefully, the good kind of snowballs. My boy Jonno knows what I'm talking about.
> 
> So next update... let's say first weekend in October?
> 
> Also, the interest in a Targs Win AU has been NOTED. I've got random chunks of one written, and a plot outlined (mostly in my head, whoops) so I may start posting that in the next month or two. Once it's more organized and Embers is further along.
> 
> Cheers!


	7. EDDARD I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to say hi to the Ned!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Most nights, Ned’s memories echoed like empty castles.

Ned slept in restless fits behind Winterfell’s great, gray walls. His dreams were spiked with whispered pleads and bodiless footsteps hammering out an urgent heartbeat on stone. Chasing him, down winding corridors and up twisting stairs. The castle was less cavernous and more voracious in the deep dark. Every breath seemed to devour the air. Some nights, Ned ran toward the pounding footfalls. The familiar patter of tiny feet—his children; himself and his siblings as they’d once been. Other nights, he fled, frightened of what he’d find. They never came to him, though, and that realization woke him every time.

A dull dawn greeted Ned that morning. Sweat slicked his skin and a final shudder of fear raced down his spine. His dreams always left behind remnants: blankets cascaded off the bed, twisted around his ankles; his body’s damp impression on the sheets; the curl of shadows in the corner by the wardrobe, reaching toward him with pencil-thin movements.

_Promise me, Ned._

But the shadows were only echoes of gnarled tree limbs, swaying outside his window. Sharp whistles of wind pricked the air. Autumn would reach the North soon, and winter not long after. Summers were short here, and warmth an endlessly chased comfort. From the hall, Shaggydog let out a soft, pleading howl.

Ned shook off his jitters and dressed in the gloom. He found the lean black wolf prowling the end of the corridor outside Rickon’s door. Ned let Shaggydog in, then headed downstairs. Even with the first brushstrokes of dawn peering through the windows, the kitchen was already alive with voices. Bran stood at the stove, an egg sizzling in a skillet. In the adjoining living room, Sansa was in the midst of a yoga routine with her friend Jeyne Poole on video chat.

“That is the laziest downward dog I have _ever_ seen.”

“Oh, please, your knees are more bent than mine!”

As the two laughed and traded quips, Ned started a pot of coffee. He took a seat at the counter to wait.

“You two really don’t understand how summer vacation is supposed to work.”

Bran flipped his egg. “It’s my first day, remember? For my internship. Jojen and I want to be early.”

As the fresh scent of coffee spread around the room, Ned took in Bran’s outfit. Not a tailored suit—of late, Bran had been growing too much to bother with the expense—but still professional.

“Feeling nervous?”

“A bit.” Bran shrugged and shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. “He seems friendly, but… weird? Like, _weird_ weird.”

“You’ll do great, Bran. He hand picked both of you, don’t count yourself out before you get there.”

Ned had never met the chief editor and owner of _The Weirwood Chronicles_ , but of all the newspapers in the realm, it was the only one he trusted for the truth. Bran winning one of only two internship spots filled Ned with pride, but seeing him so grown was hard. Even Rickon was near Ned’s height now, his voice a wild slide as it deepened.

Bran’s phone lit up on the counter. The stolen picture from Howland’s stables covered the screen. Jon and Daenerys Targaryen pressed together, kissing. Ned stiffened as Bran swiped over the screen, laughed, then tapped out a response.

“Jon saw Jojen’s picture.”

Sansa called out, “Did he threaten his wrath or physical violence?”

“Uh, disembowelment by Ghost via wolf dreams. So… both?”

Sansa and Jeyne laughed, but the sounds of the two together gave Ned another worry. How many people had seen that picture? Trusting Bran and Jojen to be discrete was easy, but once things circulated beyond the Starks...

“You shouldn’t use that picture, Bran.”

Bran stuffed his fried egg between two slices of toast. “It’s just a joke. I haven’t sent it to anyone besides Robb.”

“It could cause a lot of trouble for Princess Daenerys, if it were to get out. And Jon, too. Best to delete it. Jojen, too.”

Bran inhaled half his sandwich in one bite, frowning as he chewed.

“You’re worried about Jon.”

_Keep him safe, Ned. Don’t let them find him, promise me._

Ned swallowed. “Dating a princess is a huge undertaking, a whole new level of exposure.”

“Well, it’s about time he kissed a girl, right?”

Bran grinned, eyes bright, but Ned’s silence made him pause.

“Jon’ll be okay, Pop. Nobody handles pressure like him. Beside, Jojen said they seemed good together. She’s nice, not like those southern news stories make her out to be. Even if it’s complicated, he should go for it if she makes him happy, right?”

Jojen appeared then, trooping down the stairs. Howland’s boy looked much like he had at nineteen—short, lean, and thoughtful. For the duration of their internship, Jojen would be Winterfell’s guest on weekdays to save him an extra four hours of driving each morning.

“Good luck, boys, and delete that picture!”

They disappeared into the entrance hall. Ned poured a mug of coffee and found himself wandering outside to the yard, away from Sansa and Jeyne’s conversation and shifting poses. The castle grounds stretched before him. Steam rose from the tall grass in curls. A soft sheen of dew darkened Ned’s pants as he walked toward the gated godswood. Two lean shapes darted into sight, rushing to join him. Lady preened at him. Summer’s tail thumped the ground. Together, they trembled in excitement as Ned keyed in the security codes on the electronic gate.

“Don’t tear anything up,” Ned told them. “You broke two benches last time you were loose in here.”

A boisterous howl echoed from the castle—the pack’s worst culprit. Ned spotted Shaggydog leaping his way through the uncut grass toward them. All the wolves loved the godswood. The sentinels, the pines, the little pools, and the great, icy white weirwood. Ned let them in ahead of him, then shut the gate. Each wolf took off, nose to the dirt, disappearing into the gray-green gloom. He turned for the heart of the godswood, and seated himself beneath the weirwood, in the shadows of its vast canopy.

Only half the pack remained at Winterfell. Robb had taken Ghost, Grey Wind, and Nymeria back to Moat Cailin when he’d left last week. A knot of dread pulsed in Ned’s throat. All of his children were heading south now. In another week, Sansa would leave for her second year at Golden Rose University. Arya returned soon from Braavos, but it was her final year of mandatory school before graduation. Her path, however complicated, was already set. Training to be a royal guard, with the steep ambition of someday becoming a sworn shield of the ruling family, was a hard life. If she achieved it, she’d be the first woman to secure the coveted position. Catelyn still wasn’t thrilled, but arguing with Arya was a trying, relentless endeavour. Neither of them had the will for it.

“She won’t stay here much longer,” Ned said, a hollow feeling in his chest. His coffee burned his throat. “She’s too much like you, Lya. They both are.”

_He’ll kill him, too, Ned, you know he will. Like Brandon and father and Elia._

Ned squeezed his eyes shut, fought down the bitter bile and aching panic that rose within him. Almost twenty-three years past, Lyanna’s voice was still pristine in his ears. Desperate, pained, afraid. Even her exact stone likeness in the family crypt could not hold up to her vivid haunts etched in his memory. Nor to the ways her grown son harbored her spirit and smile. Run off at eighteen, and dead just shy of twenty. For too long, he’d dreaded the same finding Jon. Most days, he still did.

_You’ll tell him about me, won’t you, Ned?_

And he had, hadn’t he? As much as his other promises allowed.

Once Arya had been born, Ned couldn’t stop himself from talking about her. Of his willful, little sister, of her kindness and joy. Sweet Lyanna, with bones of iron and a temper of embers. Jon knew all of that and more, every story and detail scraping Ned’s insides raw with guilt. Somehow, Ned had always hoped talking of her would help ease those old aches—the stench of blood and rot seeping into that hospital room and still wafting into his lungs. But it never had.

“Ned?”

Catelyn approached through the gloom, her long, conservative dress dragging the fallen leaves. She frowned as she always did in his presence these days. Ever since he’d refused to have another child after Rickon, their relationship had been a series of minor avalanches.

“I was just heading in.”

Her frown deepened. “You have a visitor,” she told him. “Lord Reed is without.”

Relief and that old clench of despair tightened in his guts, but he nodded his thanks. Catelyn left, and a moment later Howland Reed took her place. He was still shabby-looking, his hair graying like Ned’s, his cheeks a little more hollow behind his beard. But Howland’s eyes were as bright as stars, still better than a smile. Ned’s oldest friend, and Lyanna’s, too. His only true confidant since her death.

Howland glanced back toward the gate were Catelyn had gone, then raised a bushy eyebrow at Ned. “You two still having problems?”

Ned grimaced.

They’d never stopped having problems. From their unexpected marriage after Brandon’s death, then Jon’s arrival with Ned when he’d returned home from chasing Lyanna across Westeros, to the disjointed debates over each of their children. Every year brought a new wash of guilt or stress. Once, they’d settled bricks into a strong foundation of support and affection, but only now Ned was seeing it was a wall and not a house. Catelyn sunk into her religion, spent half her days at prayer in the small sept Ned had built for her. All they did was argue if they dared to hold a real conversation.

Robb was too far away in his condition.

Sansa would mix with the wrong sorts of people so far south.

Arya was setting herself up for failure and disappointment.

Rickon was too wild, chasing danger for attention.

Only Bran had escaped her judgement, but even he wasn’t left unscathed. Like his brothers and sisters, Bran adored Jon Snow, and that was something Catelyn could never forgive. For a time, years ago, Catelyn had begun to trust Ned, to forgive his choices, but he’d been too blinded to see the truth then.

_She never forgave me, only turned her anger on Jon. Blamed him for the lie I’ve sold since he was born._

“It’s fine,” Ned told Howland. His marriage was an old problem, with rotten roots and hollow branches. He stood and the two men embraced. “I’d say I’m surprised you’re here, but Jojen’s picture says it all.”

Ned gestured vaguely at the thick tree roots of the weirwood, and Howland took a seat. He crossed his legs and rested his back against a big hump of root. As Ned joined him, Howland pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket and passed it to Ned.

 _The Weirwood Chronicles_ front page was plastered with a recent picture of Princess Daenerys Targaryen and a smaller, blurry image of Jon in full firefighter gear.

**Snow Fights Fire: Princess Daenerys’s Rescuer Revealed as Lord Stark’s Son**

The article talked little of Jon after confirming his identity. Daenerys became the focal point, spotlighting her presence at Howland’s fundraiser and the royal family’s upcoming annual Unification Day celebration. Ned set the paper down. His back tingled like a firecracker had been lit in his spine. Howland only watched him, gentleness in the lines of his face.

“I know it’s past time.”

Howland raised his eyebrow again. “Do you?”

Ned curled up the newspaper and offered it back.

“It’s yours. Rodrik asked me to bring it in from the gate.” Howland plucked a damp leaf from the ground and examined it. “He needs to know, Ned. You can’t keep putting this off.”

“I’m not.”

“I remember every promise made that day, too, Ned. Telling Jon when he came of age was one of them. Letting him make his own decisions like your father never let Lyanna do.” Howland sighed and scratched at his beard. “He’s going to be twenty-three next week, Ned. That’s a good deal past eighteen.”

“I’m aware of how old my son is.” Ned bit his tongue at the bite in his retort. He rubbed his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s not like I… gods, I had it planned out. Benjen was going to take off work at Castle Black to be there when I told him.”

“You told Benjen?” Howland sounded surprised. “Jon was supposed to be the first to know.”

“I haven’t told Ben anything,” Ned said, guilt frothing in his stomach. “He was closest with Lyanna growing up. First time he came to visit afterward, he took one look at Jon and started crying. He knew just by looking at him.”

As a baby, Jon had been her very likeness. No matter how it choked him up to see Lyanna’s willfulness or smiles or stubborn selflessness in Jon’s gray eyes and dark curls and long face, Ned was grateful for it. Jon’s northern looks were a blessed protection. Only as he grew, did his sullenness morph him more into Ned’s image. Puberty had helped, too; given Jon a man’s jaw, thicker eyebrows, sharper cheekbones, and now a beard.

_But Benjen and I would still know his features anywhere. Will Rhaegar, too? Or has he known all along and never cared to know his son?_

“I was going to ask you to be there, too,” Ned said quietly. “You knew Lyanna as well as either of us. If you were willing.”

“Of course I am, but you never asked.”

A hint of accusation darkened Howland’s words despite his pleasant expression.

“You know why I haven’t.”

“When Jon was eighteen? Sure, he’d just spent three years at the Wall. That’s hardly the right moment. Then he and Robb shipped out not even a month later, then came back torn all to pieces.”

Ned nodded along to the old reasons he’d stacked up for why any given moment was never the right time. Like Robb, Jon had been in a terrible state when he’d come back from the Smoking Sea War. Fragments of steel and rock and bone had impaled his torso in half a dozen spots. His heart had stopped twice. Panic like Ned had never known plagued him while his boys went from one operation to the next, struggling to survive.

Telling Jon in the aftermath of that wasn’t the time.

“That was almost three years ago, Ned. You’ve had all the time in the world to—”

“When? He came back from that damn war, then ran off to King’s Landing before he was fully healed. Last week—gods, Howland, that’s the first time I’ve seen Jon in person in over two years. Every time I went to King’s Landing for work he avoided me. He always made excuses for why he couldn’t visit. This isn’t something to tell him over the phone. And last week…” Ned swallowed around the knot in his throat. “I didn’t want to ruin seeing him again after so long.”

“And if _Rhaegar_ tells him? Jon needs to hear this from you.”

“Rhaegar’s never shown any interest in Jon. He’s avoided the North ever since Lyanna died.”

They’d never found out for certain what Rhaegar knew, or all of what had happened in the year and a half after Lyanna ran away. At some point, the two had met and conceived Jon. Beyond that, Ned had only pieces that evaporated like smoke in his hands. And fear. More than anything, Lyanna had faded from life and left terror-laced words that Ned would never forget.

_Aerys brought Elia’s plane down, Ned. He killed Father and Brandon, too._

_Rhaegar will bring Jon right to him._

_Rhaegar’s as mad as his father, Ned, you have to protect Jon._

And he had, hadn’t he?

He’d kept Jon a secret, raised him as his own son in the North as Lyanna had asked. For six torturous years, Ned had sat on the edge of a knife, waiting for the day Aerys or Rhaegar flew north to take Jon away by force. Only Queen Rhaella ever came to visit. Once a year, she arrived as a representative for the royal family’s annual trip in April, went through the standard courtesies, then departed. But on the cusp of autumn, King Aerys had died, just weeks after Jon’s sixth nameday. A short relief had followed the news, until another worry drilled into Ned’s skin and clung to his pores like leeches.

“She feared Rhaegar finding him near as much as Aerys, Howland.”

“Maybe she was right,” Howland said, shrugging. “Maybe not. She was too far gone to explain what she meant. If he does know about Jon, then that’s his loss. But if he doesn’t… Ned, he’s not insane. Not like Aerys or Viserys. Whoever Rhaegar was when Lyanna knew him, he doesn’t appear to be that man now. He must have been half-mad with grief after Elia and his kids died. Can you imagine finding out your own father had done that?”

Ned could. He’d sat through the nightmare a thousand times since that day, with half a dozen little faces looking to him, afraid, expecting Ned to fix everything. To make the screaming plane not slam into the churning sea below. Every time, their tiny bodies broke on impact, six sets of terrified eyes fading into the deep, cold dark. And Ned was left alive to sink into the murky depths of what his lies had reaped.

“I promised Lyanna that I would protect Jon from Aerys, that I wouldn’t let Rhaegar take him. That I would keep him _safe_.”

“And you have, Ned. I don’t blame you for not telling Jon when he was a boy. Even after Aerys’s death, Rhaegar was still all over the news with mental health issues. Everyone was just waiting for him to snap like Aerys did. And then Viserys ended up in Harrenhal…” Howland shook his head, his jaw tight. “Lyanna didn’t want Jon growing up with that. I don’t blame her. Look how it’s treated Daenerys, sweet young woman that she’s become.”

“Why didn’t she just come home? Father was gone. He couldn’t force her into a life she didn’t want anymore. I would have let her do as she wanted.”

The old wish was sour on his tongue and hollow in the air. He could have found a discrete doctor, one who could have caught the preeclampsia early. A doctor who could have saved Lyanna and Jon. The two could have lived their own lives wherever Lyanna wished. In Braavos or Pentos or somewhere quiet in the North. He’d left so many voicemails pleading for her to return that he’d filled her inbox, but still Ned had called, hoping for an answer. Hoping every morning and night, that they’d get a lead on where she was hiding. That he might reason with her to come home.

“I don’t know, Ned. Wishing it won’t change it.” Howland caught Ned’s forearm. “Jon isn’t a kid anymore. He’s a man grown and he has a right to know the truth. _Rhaegar_ has a right to know the truth, if he doesn’t already. Bastard or not, Jon is his son.”

“I know, but…” Ned twisted the newspaper in his hands. For a moment, it felt warm and slender, a strong pulse flickering in his grip.

_You’ll tell him about me, won’t you, Ned?_

_You won’t need me to tell him, you’ll be there to show him._

“I can’t lose him, too, Howland.”

“You won’t.” Howland squeezed his shoulder, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Jon’s more capable of forgiveness than anyone I know. He loves you, Ned. He’ll need time to understand, but he will. You’re the only parent he’s ever known, he’s as much like you as he is Lyanna. And you… gods, Ned, you can’t keep shouldering all of this like you are. Once you tell him, you can finally see someone—a therapist—to get you past this grief you’ve carried around for twenty-three years. All these fears about the kids leaving Winterfell and ending up like Brandon and Lyanna or worse. They’re all going to be just fine.”

“Catelyn wanted that. To see a counselor,” Ned clarified. “A couple’s counselor, but…”

He’d refused. The very thought of having someone opening up his secrets like a treasure chest made his veins turn to ice. Jon had to know first. Not some therapist who might spread the truth, and not Catelyn before Jon understood. Who knew after Jon was told would be Jon’s decision, nobody else’s.

“Gods, if Rhaegar doesn’t know, Howland…”

They’d talked that point to death years ago, circling and never landing on anything certain. The crown prince had never confessed his side of the tale. Ned had never dared to ask, least he break Lyanna’s promises. All she’d left behind was Jon, a whisper of promises, and a ragged journal only a dozen pages filled. Entries to Jon, her hopes and dreams for him and herself. But no hint at what Rhaegar might have meant to her, no mentions of his name. No scandals of a secret marriage between the two had ever surfaced. If Rhaegar knew the truth, he’d done his best to avoid it; to leave his illegitimate son in Ned’s care.

Howland considered him for a long time. Lady came past, eager for their friendly pats and strokes. Shaggydog raced about with a ten foot tree branch, dragging it out of Summer’s reach. They were a sight to see, they always had been. But without the other three the feeling wasn’t the same.

“They were something special together, you know,” Howland said. “I haven’t seen Jon smile like that in years. The kids loved them.”

“How many fist fights did they have over braiding Jon’s hair?”

Howland’s laugh was clear and loud. “None, surprisingly. But Jon and Daenerys… they’ve already got a close bond, Ned. Whatever’s growing between them is genuine and mutual. That was plain to see.”

“They only just met.” But Ned recalled the picture Bran had waved around all day yesterday, and the night before. The sincere calm in Jon’s face and posture, the curls at the corners of both their mouths. “And she’s… gods, she’s his aunt.”

“And?”

Ned scoffed. “That wouldn’t bother you?”

“Well, my own aunt’s eighty-six, so I expect it would. She’s got a wicked hump, and those gnarled hands Jon keeps insisting I have.” This time, Howland’s chuckle was softer. “They’re close in age. Aunt and nephew is rather tame for Targaryens.”

“Jon isn’t one.”

Howland tilted his head. “Perhaps not by name, but if you consider him a Stark, despite his birth, then he’s a dragon, too.”

Ned conceded that point as Summer loped into sight and dropped his head onto Ned’s chest. The wolf gazed up at him, golden eyes twinkling in the little shafts of sunlight creeping in through the canopy of ruby leaves. Of the six, Summer had always had a look of understanding in his gaze, a sharpness that caught Ned off guard.

“They looked happy,” Ned said, his voice quiet. “In the picture.”

“If they’re not already falling for each other, they will be soon enough.” Howland reached over and stroked Summer’s cheek. “Just tell me when, Ned, and I’ll be here. Or in King’s Landing, wherever you think is best.”

Ned swallowed and tried to shake off the bone-crushing grip of trepidation tightening around him. The air seemed to devour him, pricking at his skin and eyes and lungs.

 _You’ll tell him about me, won’t you, Ned?_ Lyanna’s distant whisper asked. _Promise me._

“I will, Howland. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the first glimpse into Ned, kiddos, and the R+L=J modernized backstory. There's still a lot more to delve into, but, as a few with sharp eyes noticed, we've got 44 chapters to parse out all the agonizing details. Maybe more depending on how the writing unfolds :P
> 
> Up next is Arya, my sweet little night wolf, returned to Westeros for a wolf pack nameday bash. We'll then be hopping back on the Dany train before peering into another, much awaited, window to the past: Rhaegar!
> 
> Next update will be... -drum roll- let's say between October 18-22? I'm averaging around 10-12 days right now, so fingers crossed I keep that going.
> 
> As always, questions are welcome on here or on Tumblr! 'Cause spoilers and conversation are fun. 
> 
> Cheers until next time!


	8. ARYA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does watching these crazy-ass Sharknado movies equal productive writing? Who knows, kids. It just does. Maybe it's all the secondhand embarrassment in the room.
> 
> The little night wolf arrives!
> 
> Enjoy!

Leaving Braavos always felt like be flung out of a slingshot. 

On her plane bound for King’s Landing International, Arya peered down at the foamy white caps of Braavos’s lagoon. Far below, people dotted the streets and bridges like freckles. Sunset’s fiery glow shaded the sea in spirals of orange and ruby. The Titan of Braavos passed beneath her, his great stone legs straddling the lagoon’s only entrance. His massive gray sword jutted southwest into the sky, pointing her way home. Twisting fear beat a tattoo against her throat as the ground’s details smudged and blurred.

Her first flight last summer had frightened her, too. The roar of the plane’s engines, pressure pounding against her eardrums, and then, just as the plane had leveled off in a brilliant blue sky, the world’s edge had appeared and fled beneath her. A choppy steel-colored sea had stretched to every horizon. Hours later, her new instructor, Syrio Forel, had seen that fear in her eyes and the wobble of her thin legs.

He’d given Arya her first lesson that day, seated across from her at an airport coffee shop. 

_ “I wasn’t afraid,” Arya insisted. “And I’m not now either.” _

_ His wise, old smile only made her angry. As she grabbed for her pocket knife, to wield it—to prove she was as she said—Arya found her pocket empty. All of her pockets. Her phone, her little knife from Jon, her wallet, even her plane ticket. Across the table, Syrio’s nimble fingers spun her pocket knife in slow circles. _

_ “Just so, Arya child. To be a sworn shield, you are needing to open your eyes, I am thinking.” _

_ “But—how did you—I  _ was _ looking.” _

_ “Not with your eyes, and that is what I will be teaching you.” The knife stopped spinning, the hilt pointed at her. “There is no shame in fear, only the lies you are telling to ignore it.”  _

_ Syrio offered her the pocket knife. Arya hesitated for a second, watching for a lie, any tick of his skin that meant he would snatch it back. Then she eased it from his grasp. He handed her the rest of her belongings. _

_ “Fear cuts deeper than swords, child. So you must be swifter, calmer, and fiercer than it. But first, you must learn to be the sword.” _

Arya took several measured breaths, kept her face pressed to the window as the plane soared higher. She watched Braavos shrink, the Titan’s sonorous horn blasting thrice for their departure. Then her home away from home disappeared as the clouds became an endless fog around her. The sky was already inky black on the other side.

Fear was like clockwork, intricate and steady. It chased you down, more constant than a heartbeat in your chest. Arya did her best to match its rhythm to hers.

She glared at blackness outside the window, the nothingness suspending them thousands of feet above the earth.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords,” Arya whispered. 

She shut the cover on her window, popped her earbuds in, and closed her eyes. Her dreams were filled with soft howls and rustling leaves. The pack was halved, flitting through shaggy fir trees, trapped by a too tall wooden fence. But her biggest brothers ran with her, the pale one and the smoke gray. She was safe in the dark under the fresh sliver of moon.

Arya woke to the plane shuddering as the wheels skimmed the landing strip. She weaved her way to baggage claim, collected her giant camping pack, then headed for the subway. Compared to Braavos, the air was stiff and hot. The summer sun bled into the pavement and cobblestone, heating the city even in the early morning. King’s Landing’s red roofs shone brighter than copper in the sunlight.

She hopped the first subway train that rumbled into the overcrowded airport stop. Three trains later, she’d wound her way to the steep southern edge of Rhaenys’s Hill. Across the city, the ancient Sept of Baelor’s seven crystal towers glittering in the morning light. Robb, Sansa, and Margaery wouldn’t reach the city for hours yet. Jon was back to work finally, a week of short shifts to ease him into it. The city was hers alone until late afternoon.

Instead of milling around, Arya texted her family that she’d arrived, then lied to her mother saying she was safely tucked away at Jon’s flat. And she did stop there to ditch her luggage, so it wasn’t a full lie. She keyed in the building code for Jon’s front door, a metal-grated hunk of stained glass, jogged up the stairs, then plucked his spare key from behind the false brick halfway down the hall. The sweet aroma of the Tyroshi bakery downstairs permeated throughout the building.

She’d just made up her mind to grab food there, when Arya found herself accosted leaving the building. A hulking camera was pushed into her face. Several others hovered around her, blocking her view of the street.

“Do you live here? Are you a friend of Jon Snow’s?”

“Are you his girlfriend? Lover?”

“Can you give us a quote about—”

Her little knife flashed in the air. “Only if you like steel ones.”

Arya pushed her way through the group—a round half dozen—and ducked into the bakery. She watched them through the shop’s display window. They disappeared one by one; some into parked vehicles, another into an alley with a broken gate. One even climbed into an overgrown hedge. Jon’s new group of shadows, an unsavory pack of paparazzi. He’d only mentioned their annoying presence in passing since his identity had been confirmed a fortnight ago. Seeing them firsthand proved a menace.

Scowling, Arya bought a massive croissant sandwich and ate it while she walked the city. She’d only been to King’s Landing twice. Once with her mother and sister years before, and last summer to visit Jon after her first training camp in Braavos. The cobblestone streets were still familiar. She’d studied the maps, walked a hole in her shoes for the week she’d visited last August, had memorized every subway line and as many sights, smells, and sounds as she could. Even chased a few stray cats. Just like Syrio had taught her in Braavos.

She did the same today, minus the cats, watching the food truck vendors in Cobbler’s Square, and those lined up along the Hook and Muddy Way. Every subway line offered a new adventure. She tried each one, criss-crossing the city proper and then hopping one that took her beyond the city’s old curtain wall. It took her miles outside of King’s Landing, northeast through Duskendale. The line ended at Rook’s Rest before the swampy marshes of Crackclaw Point. She ate lunch there, at a shabby crab shack along the dock. Blackwater Bay flashed in the afternoon sun. In the distance, Dragonstone’s smoky haze marked the southeastern horizon like a blemish.

Her phone rang, Sansa’s contact picture filling the screen.

“Hey, we’re almost at Rosby. We’re going to take the subway in. Are you at Jon’s?”

Arya glanced at the crab shack. A flock of seagulls screeched along the dock’s bannister.  “Uh, yeah. I’ll meet you at the Rosby station.”

“So Jon’s adopted an owl to replace Ghost, has he?”

“Seagull actually.”

“A secret for a secret?” 

“I’ll keep yours, if you keep mine.”

“Deal.”

Arya smiled as Sansa laughed. Two years ago, they would have already been threatening each other bodily harm, but shared secrets had a funny way of shaping people.

“I’ll meet you at Rosby,” Arya told her. “ _ Don’t _ go to Jon’s. Those stupid paparazzi idiots are still outside.”

“Seriously? It’s been, like, two weeks. All they get is him glowering and sipping coffee.”

“Our favorite grumpy brother. He said Tormund gave them a show the other night.”

“Of course he did. See you in a bit.”

Sansa was the first out of the old SUV when Arya arrived at the Rosby station parking lot. Her big sister slid out of the backseat, all sleek legs and fashionable dress. Her auburn hair hung almost to her waist. Both her and Margaery had adopted some new half-braided style. Just looking at it made Arya itch to move. She didn’t want to know how long they’d had to sit for that.

Arya hugged Sansa, then Margaery and Robb.

“Oh, look at you!” As always, Margaery looked cheerful and dazzling. “How was Braavos?”

“Good, lots of training.”

Robb gave her upper arm a testing squeeze. She flexed the muscles for him.

“You’re gonna be more muscle than Jon at this rate.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then ducked his attempted headlock.

They took the subway back into the city. Instead of getting off at the stop for Jon’s apartment, they cruised three stops further into central Flea Bottom. Jon had insisted they all meet at the fire station. According to him, the paparazzi had been banned from the block under threat of arrest after they’d hindered the firefighters from reaching an emergency a week ago.

Firehouse 83 was a corner building overshadowed by Aegon’s High Hill. Arya couldn’t say what the old building had been before being repurposed into a fire station, but like the rest of the block, the structure was as old as the city itself. All of Flea Bottom showed the same centuries’ old wear and crumbling facades. The fire station, at least, appeared more modern, but the rest of the street was distinctly shabby. 

Out front, a pair of firefighters were hosing off a scarlet fire truck. One had a mass of tangled ginger hair Arya recognized.

“Fuckin’ hell, the Starks already. And one’s been kissed by fire, too!”

Tormund shook hands all around, beaming like he was trying to split his face in half. He waved them toward the open garage door.

“He’s upstairs, doing all that damn paperwork I don’t. Gonna need a few drinks to get him up for tonight.” Tormund nodded back at the other firefighter washing the truck. “Go on, I gotta keep an eye on this goof.”

“I don’t need to be watched.” The man gave Tormund an insolent glare, blue eyes bright and fierce. He looked about Sansa’s age. “I can wash a truck without a babysitter.”

“Shut your flapping hole, Waters, and prove it.”

Arya led the way inside, and up a flight of stairs to a landing overlooking the other trucks. A kitchen and scrubbed wooden table took up most of the space. Only Davos Seaworth was present, stirring a bubbling pot on the stove.

“Well, you lot are a welcome sight.” Davos hugged each of them, and gave Robb a serious once over. “Looking good. Healthy. Think you can convince your brother to do the same? Stop running into burning buildings off-duty?”

“Jon’s a stubborn ass when he wants to be,” Robb agreed. “When’s he allowed back on official duty?”

“Tomorrow, if he doesn’t end up drunk tonight like Tormund wants. As close as I could get to a nameday present,” Davos said. “He’s back in the office. Just follow the snarls.”

Arya did, while Sansa, Robb, and Margaery lingered to talk with Davos. She snuck down the little corridor, past a room of uniforms and equipment, several closed doors, and a bathroom. From an open doorway, Jon’s deep voice growled in annoyance. She crept forward.

_ Quiet as a shadow _ , Arya reminded herself.  _ Quick as a snake _ .

He was seated at a desk, typing on a computer, two stacks of paper on either side of him. Even facing away from her, just seeing his dark curly bun made her smile. Jon always missed her. And somehow, that always meant more than anyone else.

“Fucking Tormund, this was  _ five _ months ago…”

Arya slid in behind him, grinning, and reached out to cover his eyes. But Jon was quick, too. She yelped as he snatched her wrists and spun his chair around.

“Hey!”

“Gotcha, little sister.”

She struggled as he tugged her into a bear hug, protesting for show more than true anger.

“Get off, Jon. Ugh, I almost got you.”

“Did you? Could hear you breathing from the street.”

“You could  _ not _ .”

He mussed up her hair, and gave her a proper hug. Arya watched his smile when they pulled apart. A lightness traced the curves of his face. Vibrant and cheerful. She hadn’t seen that look in a long time, the ease of relief etched into his eyes. Arya studied him just as he studied her.

“Did you get taller?”

“Pfft, no. Rickon’s gonna be a nightmare.”

“Little brothers usually are.”

“And big ones.” She poked his cheek, but his smile stayed put.  _ Fascinating _ .

“Are you my party escort then?”

“Don’t make it sound like a funeral march. You’re twenty-three today!”

“Ugh.”

Jon saved his file and shut the computer off. They found Davos in the middle of an old sailing story from his youth with Robb, Sansa, and Margaery gathered around to listen. Tormund, too, came stomping up the stairs with the new recruit, Waters, in tow. 

“Who’s ready? My apartment’s floor to ceiling kegs and salsa.”

Jon groaned. “Seriously?”

“What? You can’t have your princess in your bed tonight, so you’re getting drunk instead.”

“Don’t talk about Daenerys like—”

Tormund smacked Jon’s cheeks in what he seemed to consider a friendly gesture. He cupped Jon’s sour expression and squeezed his face.

“Shh, it’s okay, loverboy. Let’s drunk celebrate. Rooftop party!”

After arguing with Waters to stay put, the Starks and Tormund made their way out to the street. Arya started for the subway station, but Jon caught her shoulder and steered her in the opposite direction.

“Nope, this way.”

“Why?”

“You wanted more secret tunnels in Braavos, right? Good news. King’s Landing’s got a thousand.” Jon turned the corner as Tormund glanced around. “Davos found one on some old fire precinct maps that comes out in the alley behind our building.”

They passed into a busy pizza parlor, sizzling cheese pungent in the air. The man behind the counter was rotund, bald, and greasy, but he winked at Tormund and let them pass through a door marked “Employees Only”. A narrow stairway led to a basement, then an old metal door built into the dusty stone wall. They found themselves in a reasonably warm tunnel, single-file. After twenty minutes of winding through the gloom by the lights of their phone screens, Tormund shoved up at the ceiling. A wedge of stone scraped aside, a blinding shaft of sunlight hitting Arya’s eyes. They all climbed out, Tormund and Jon hoisting Robb up by his arms. Like Jon had said, they were in a grungy alley. Both ends were blocked by rusty, old dumpster piled high with the local restaurants’ trash. 

“Home sweet home,” Jon said. He shouldered a door open on the nearest building. 

At once, Arya recognized the sweet aromas of the Tyroshi bakery. They made their way up a rickety staircase to the entryway. On the other side of the stained glass door, Arya could see a pair of paparazzi cornering some poor man with dark hair like Jon’s. They headed upstairs to the hall of apartments. While Tormund rushed off to start hauling party stuff to the roof, Jon let them into his apartment.

Robb flopped onto the couch, easing his arms out of his elbow crutches. “You do that every time you go out now?”

Jon frowned. “No. Just sometimes. Keeps them guessing. Honestly, they’d started to fizzle out until someone leaked my nameday was today. Figured it was safer for you guys, this way.”

He cast them a guilty glance and set his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. 

Jon’s loft apartment wasn’t much, just one wing in a tiny building. Only three other apartments took up the space, each one fitted into a corner. From outside the building looked to be three stories, but the ceiling between the middle and top floors had been removed. Instead of low ceilings, Jon’s space was double the height, but only twenty feet wide. A small loft was built overhead. Arya suspected it was meant to pass as the bedroom, but Jon used it as a cozy reading nook. His couch was up there instead of his bed, which was set up beside the kitchen island.

“I see what you mean,” Robb said, glancing around. “Ghost would lose his mind in here.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s better than most places in Flea Bottom.”

“Even better than your girlfriend’s—”

“She’s not my… come on. Let’s go help, Tormund.”

Down the hall, Tormund’s door was wide open. As promised, the place was packed with kegs and food stacks as high as Arya. They spent the better part of an hour carrying it all up to Tormund’s loft and then passing it through the roof hatch to Jon. Pizza was ordered, and with it half a dozen semi-familiar faces snuck in through the tunnel out back. Dolorous Edd, Val, even Grenn and Pip who’d done the original firefighter training program with Jon, but worked in a station on River Row.

Arya grabbed some pepperoni pizza and found a good seat in a corner. Watching, taking an inventory. A dull bass line hummed as Tormund cranked up his music. It reminded Arya of screaming lions choking on their own tongues, but it got a few people dancing. Jon was dragged into the middle of the group over and over. Sansa and Margaery kept mostly to themselves at a table by the chimney. Tormund insisted on stringing up lights, then kept getting his waving arms caught in them. Eventually, he decided to wear them. Robb was lost in the crowd of firefighters, but Arya spotted his shock of auburn hair every now and then. 

She watched them all. 

Jon sneaking away from the spotlight to hide in a creaky deck chair. 

Margaery’s requests for non-alcoholic drinks. For the beers Tormund pushed on her anyway, Robb scooped them up and offered them to someone else. 

Then later, once Davos popped in for a few hours, she spotted Sansa, red-faced, as she had a heated, whispered argument on her phone. Arya didn’t have to guess about that one. 

“I wish you were bigger,” Jon muttered as he grabbed a chair and sat it behind Arya. “Then you could hide me from Tormund.”

Arya flicked her leftover crusts at him. They had a vigorous pizza crust fight until one sailed over the roof ledge. Jon downed the last of his beer, watching the little crowd as Tormund turned up the music.

“Is Sansa okay?”

Jon eyed their sister across the rooftop. She was still on the phone, but she had tears to match her red cheeks. Arya stood up.

“I’ve got it,” she told him. 

She left Jon trying to hide in the corner, and gently led Sansa to Tormund’s roof hatch. As they climbed down, Sansa’s argument continued.

“No, I  _ told _ you why. Not right now. Jeyne, come on. No.  _ No. _ ”

Sansa’s heels clicked on the loft’s floor. She pulled the phone away from her ear in disbelief. “She hung up on me!”

Arya made a noise of agreement, dug through Tormund’s mess and finally found a tissue box. She handed it off to Sansa, and together they sat on a pair of empty kegs beside the tornadic massacre Tormund passed off as a bed.

“You want to talk about it?”

Sansa dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. “No. She’s…  _ whatever _ . It’s her problem. I don’t want to ruin Jon’s party.”

“Think he’d rather just be watching a movie under a heap of blankets,” Arya admitted, grinning. Sansa gave a little laugh. “He’ll understand, you know. And Robb, too. He’s got a brother-in-law with a husband.”

Sansa wiped her nose and began to collect herself. “Margaery guessed, I think.”

“She grew up with Loras.”

Sansa nodded. “She always makes a point of asking after Jeyne. But Jon…”

“Jon is Jon,” Arya said simply. “He won’t care as long as you’re happy. Same as Pop.”

Her sister took a shaky breath and dabbed at her eyes again. “I don’t know how to tell Jon let alone  _ Father _ . Or what label to use for myself or…. And Mother. Gods, can you imagine?”

“I’ll be there when you tell her. If you want.” Arya put a careful arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “Gods knows, I think she’s been waiting for me to bring a girl home instead of a boy. You’ll figure it out, Sansa.”

“Like you did?”

“Well, you did have that video chat out in the open,” Arya reminded her. “At least it was me who overheard you two instead of Rickon.”

Sansa hugged her tight, then stood. She dug a little hand mirror out of her bra and grimaced at her reflection. “Ugh, my eyes are  _ ruined _ . Is Jon’s apartment unlocked? I don’t… trust Tormund’s bathroom.”

They stared around at the mess. The kegs, the splintery crates scattered about as little tables, the molding plate of  _ something _ a few feet away.

“I know where the spare key is.”

Jon’s door was thankfully unlocked. Sansa ducked into the bathroom while Arya took a seat on her brother’s bed to wait. Overhead, she could heard the music’s dull thump, the scuffle of shoes. A sharp creak split the air. She glanced up toward the loft as Jon’s roof hatch opened and a pair of familiar boots descended.

“Sorry, sorry. Can you hear me okay?”

Jon tugged the roof hatch shut, then hopped off the ladder. When he turned around, his smile was radiant.

“Yeah, hi. I wasn’t expecting… you didn’t have to call.”

A short silence followed, then Jon laughed. 

“Fine, that’s fair. I’d rather just be holed up somewhere quiet honestly. Yeah, I’m not much for big parties.”

Another silence. Arya crept closer to the loft stairs, peering up through the metal railing. Jon was biting his lip, trying to contain his grin, but his eyes were brighter than stars.

“Dragonstone? Oh, that’s… no, no, no! Of course I’ll go. I-I want to see you. I miss you.”

A long silence filled the room. From the bathroom, Arya could hear the sink running. Jon laughed again.

“Yeah, mine, too. So a long weekend for Unification Day. I’d love to go. Actually, give me a minute and I’ll catch Davos to ask him. Hang on.”

Arya eased out of her hiding spot, watched Jon set his phone on the couch, then climb back onto the roof. A rush of noise greeted him, then fell quiet as the hatch clicked shut. She took one glance at the bathroom door, then darted up the stairs and kneeled beside the phone, pressed her ear to it. 

Someone’s soft breathing was on the line, then a little brush of static. “Tyrion, stop. He’s asking his boss for the time off. I’ll have an answer in a minute.”

The roof hatch creaked. Arya scampered back down the stairs and hid away under the loft again. Jon leapt back through, and his voice carried just enough for Arya to hear him.

“I’ll be there. What time on Thursday? Great. I’ll meet them at Rook’s Rest then. And… yeah, I can’t wait to see you, too, Dany. Bye.”

She’d suspected it was Daenerys Targaryen, but confirming it sent a thrill through her. Bran had only sent that picture off to her and Robb to tease Jon, but Arya had seen a look she’d never encountered on Jon before. Talking with Robb a week ago had only confirmed it. Despite the risks and the cameras and the hot spotlight, Jon still wanted to see Daenerys.

Jon truly liked her.

_ She better really like him, too. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye for now, Arya Stark, my sweet night wolf. Our eye in the sky. And under the loft. It's gonna be a hot minute before we see her POV again -sniff-
> 
> So next up: Dany and Missy talk some politics and bond. The Targaryens make their way to Dragonstone to celebrate Unification Day! (AKA Jon and Dany reunite and make soft eye porn at each other for all to see.)
> 
> The next 4ish chapters are going to cover this Unification Day extravaganza, actually. 
> 
> After Dany, we've got Rhaegar, Jon, and Dany again. Then switching gears to Tyrion having a chat with our good queen, Rhaella :D
> 
> Next update (hopefully) between October 28 and November 1. Halloween may be disruptive, status pending.
> 
> Speaking of that pesky November... anyone else intentionally shredding their soul for NaNoWriMo? Don't make me suffer alone lmao


	9. DAENERYS III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy November, kids! It's time for Dany Dany Dany!!!

“He said yes.”

Dany clicked off the cordless phone and set it in the cradle on Tyrion’s desk. Tyrion swirled his wine, smirking.

“You seem surprised, Princess.”

“Not surprised.” Dany felt the tugs of a smile in her cheeks.  _ Hopeful, _ she decided.

She’d expected many answers from Jon about the celebration on Dragonstone. Her first, whimsical dream had been an overwhelming yes. Then fear had overshadowed her fantasies. Jon had a hectic schedule as a firefighter. He’d already missed nearly a month recovering because of her stupidity, and worst of all: what if Jon didn’t like her enough to accept all the tangled strings attached to her?

But Jon had. Once again, he’d delighted her with his unwavering eagerness. He hadn’t seemed fazed by the political landscape he was about to trek through. 

Tyrion finished his wine. “I suppose that leaves me with the fun task of informing Her Grace.”

Dany’s insides went to ice. “You didn’t ask her  _ before _ I called Jon?”

He offered her a sly smile as he made for the door. “It’s not prudent to bother the Queen with something as trivial as a potential guest list,” he told her. “Not until the Crown’s invitation has been extended  _ and _ accepted.”

Dany only understood what he’d done after the door had shut behind him. By waiting to tell Rhaella after the fact, Tyrion had guaranteed Jon’s attendance. Revoking Jon’s invitation now would be seen as a slight against the Starks, despite Jon’s bastard status. Mother would have no choice but to accept Jon’s presence.

The invitation had been Tyrion’s suggestion. Even if they’d been dating— _ courting _ as her mother called it—for some time, the annual Unification Day celebration was an enormous undertaking. Four full days of mingling with high ranking political officials and representatives of Westeros’s aristocracy. They’d attend garden parties, feasts, a mock-joust and other traditional sporting events. Everything ended in a firework spectacular just after dusk on Unification Day. Most attendees would be southern families, people Jon had never encountered. Jon’s upbringing had prepared him for one intimate dinner and Lord Reed’s familiar fundraiser, but a lengthy royal affair was a different beast. Like comparing snails to dragons.

Tyrion, however, had been insistent. Dany suspected a hundred ulterior motives, but inviting Jon was the perfect solution for seeing him again.

It was a test, too. A wicked, teeth-rattling, nerve-fraying test. If Jon survived without incident, then she’d potentially have her mother’s support. Her brother’s, too. So far, Rhaegar had offered no remarks about her trip to the Neck. Just that morning, he’d departed for his annual retreat of solitude to Summerhall, as he did every year around this time.

Tyrion’s reasonings, however hidden, were sound. Her future partner had to be a thousand forms of public perfection. A good husband, an amicable guest and a charming host. A cool tempered man who would walk one step behind her. Without envy, without lust for power nor riches, but he needed to be comfortable with each. A man willing to give up all his life had been prior to her. Someone she could trust to raise her children well when she was too busy for the task, especially if she ascended the throne before her little ones were grown. If Jon could not handle any one of those, weeding him out now was best.

But she didn’t want to grind him down and see if the pressure made dust or diamonds of him. Whatever Jon was—whether he proved entirely capable or woefully out of place—Dany still wanted him with her. Not just a warm body beside her in bed, but a companion. A friend and a lover, exquisite in all the ways he might be hers. She longed for that more than any crown.

 

* * *

 

Maegor’s holdfast housed the second greatest library in Westeros. After Dragonstone’s windswept cliffs and smoky clouds, it was Dany’s favorite place to be. On her first trip to King’s Landing, in the months after her father’s death, Rhaegar had introduced her to its muted knowledge. He, too, had a secret love affair with the leather-creased spines, the musty scent of aging books, and the stiff silence heavy on her shoulders like a warm cloak. Besides her own private chambers, the library was the one place in the Red Keep that brought Dany peace. 

Since her return from Lord Reed’s, however, Dany found she was no longer alone in her enjoyment. Missandei was there every day, curled up in an armchair beside the balcony door. They never spoke, but her newest advisor sat and read well into the night and each morning as the sun rose. She was there tonight, too, a warm breeze ruffling her springy curls. Dany took stock of Missandei nestled in the armchair—the one right across from her own.

Dany selected her latest read—a century old volume on dragonology—and took her seat. Ser Barristan shifted into the shadows beside the open balcony door. Not blocking the breeze, but within striking distance should a rogue, winged assassin come meandering up the castle walls. Missandei glanced up long enough to offer a smile, and for a time, they both settled in to their reading. But Dany couldn’t focus for long. She was used to Ser Barristan’s comfortable presence at her back, but Missandei was different. Pages rusted when she wasn’t turning hers, the chair creaked when she wasn’t moving. 

Dany glanced over at her. They were near enough the same age, but beyond an impressive resumé and her ghosting behind Tyrion during meetings, Missandei rarely said anything. She twisted to see the cover of Missandei’s book.  _ From Winter’s Kings to Wardens of the North: An Ancestral History of House Stark. _

“You’re reading about the Starks?”

Missandei looked up.

“I thought it would be a good idea, Your Grace. Learning the history of Jon Snow’s family seemed prudent.”

“I’m not. ‘Your Grace’, I mean. That’s just for the Queen,” Dany explained, flustered by the title. “And my brother, usually, since he’s the crown prince.”

“Oh, of course. Forgive me, Princess. Royal titles are more broadly used in Essos.”

Dany considered her. She was eager and willing to learn and grow, but quiet. Almost meek sometimes.

“Daenerys is fine in private.”

Missandei smiled shyly. “You can call me Missy then.”

“Missy?”

“My baby brother’s called me that since he was two. Missandei was too difficult for him, and it just sort of stuck.”

“I made everyone call me Dany until I was nine because Daenerys was too hard for me to spell. I kept getting the vowels all mixed up.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I still do sometimes.”

Missandei laughed, a loud cheerful sound that startled the quiet of the library.

“Rhaegar’s the only one who still calls me that… and Jon now.”

Missandei dog-earred her page and shut the heavy, old book. She eyed Ser Barristan tucked into the shadows, then leaned in.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, but we still don’t know each other particularly well…”

“What?”

Dany shut her book, too.

“You seem... very fond of Jon Snow. Tyrion’s quite fondly exasperated about it. ‘A half-baked fiasco careening toward probable self-inflicted disaster’ is what he called it. But he’s still giving him an opportunity.”

“A very public one, yes.” Just saying it made Dany’s nerves tingle. “I’ll be… glad to see Jon again.”

“He’s very handsome.”

She flushed under Missandei’s keen, bright eyes. For an instant, she was back in the comfort of Jon’s embrace in that dark hotel room. Under the heavy weight of firm muscle, the greedy press of his lips on hers, the hunger dark in his eyes, his raspy groans she’d felt vibrating from deep in his chest. His lips elsewhere, too. Tasting her skin, her sweat, the sure, silken stroke of his tongue over her slick cunt…

Her entire face felt like it was melting off. “Jon’s lovely.”

Missandei didn’t press beyond that, and Dany was grateful. Someday, they might have that conversation, but for now, they hardly knew each other. By the time they did, Dany hoped she’d have more than Jon’s talented tongue to gush about.

“I’m glad for you. Finding someone who fits into your life, who brings something wonderful and warm into your world is a powerful feeling.”

“You have someone?”

“Grey. He’s in Astapor right now, helping relocate refugees from the Smoking Sea. My brothers, too.”

The Smoking Sea War had raged for most of Dany’s life. Originally a dispute over natural resources unearthed in the remains of Old Valyria, the conflict had evolved into a full-scale, but generally hushed up, war on the ragged peninsula. Near all of the Nine Free Cities were involved, as well as the former slave cities farther east. Westeros had entered the fued near four years ago, at her brother’s request to aid the civilians, though Dany suspected the Westerosi National Parliament had more lucrative reasons for agreeing. Jon had been one soldier in thousands sent across the Narrow Sea since then. Countless had died, both civilian and military. Families were scattered, searching for each other without knowing if their siblings or children or parents were still alive to find. Help was scarce despite her brother’s efforts.

“That’s very noble of them.”

“My mother raised us to fight for our beliefs,” Missandei said. “To help those who need it. Nobody should have to live in such horror, children especially.”

Marcie’s grinning face popped into Dany’s head unbidden. She’d thought of Winter Rose’s children often since her visit. They were cared for, of course. Well-fed with clothing that fit and taught at a local school, but Howland Reed had still been dismayed. He did all he could; all he could afford with Lord Stark’s funding, but once a wildling child turned eighteen and graduated, hope vanished fast. Every one carried a wildling surname that would follow them just as a bastard surname did. Giantsbane, Frostfangs, Thenn, Skirling. Each one named for the prison they’d been born into, no matter what their own parents’ names were. Children born of prisoners, beyond the Wall, then sent south to whatever foster home or orphanage would accept them. Stolen from their families, and unwanted by others. Most ended up back in a life of crime, a revolving door of offenses until they were deemed incapable of rehabilitation. Those that escaped that fate went into military service, one of their only viable options in adulthood.

“No, they shouldn’t.” Dany stared at her book, the glossy image of a great black dragon curled around the title. “I want to help people, too. That’s what a princess should be doing, not… not running around causing an upset.”

Missandei’s hand tentatively reached across and squeezed Dany’s wrist. “Well, officially, I was hired for translation purposes and Essosi politics, but I happen to have a rather… extensive background in activism.”

Her ears pricked at those words. Tyrion had versed her in Missandei’s academic achievements, in the dozen languages she was fluent in, and the Essosi background she brought to her advisory team. He hadn’t mentioned anything else.

“Activism? Like protests and marches?”

Missandei nodded. “Among other things. On-campus organizations, peace and human rights campaigns, petitions, rallies. There’s a lot you can do to be politically active, even as an average citizen. My mother heads the Former Slaves Coalition in Meereen. I grew up helping her.” Her eyes shined with enthusiasm, but Missandei bit her lip. She seemed to fear she’d gone too far, misstepped somehow. “Is… is that what you mean, Princess? Are you interested in supporting a movement of some sort?”

“I think so. Or maybe starting one.”

Dany told Missandei what she knew of the wildling children. It wasn’t much, just tidbits Jon had said and Howland Reed’s explanation while he’d given her a tour of Winter Rose’s grounds.

“I don’t know much about the Westerosi prison system,” Missandei said when Dany finished. “It’s a good thing we’re in a library.”

As Missandei stood and gazed around at the towering rows of books, Dany hesitated.

“I doubt there’s anything about wildlings here,” she said quietly. “I didn’t even realize it was an issue until I went to Winter Rose with Jon. Howland… he does his best to keep it quiet, where the children are from. Most lords aren’t fond of wildlings. They look down on them, shun them like illegitimate children.”

“Can we talk to Lord Reed then? Is he attending the celebration?”

She almost laughed. “Lord Reed doesn’t leave the Neck. My brother’s never even met him. He’s very reclusive.”

“But Jon Snow knows him well?”

The two had certainly seemed close. Much like Tyrion the few times she’d seen him with his little nephew, Tommen.

“And Jon was in the army, wasn’t he?” Missandei began to pace before Dany, a fire kindling in her bright eyes. “He probably knows quite a few adults who’ve been through the system. We could see what he knows, or if he knows someone who might know more.”

“I’ll ask him.”  

“Great. I’ll do some research online, see what I can find.” Missandei paused in her pacing and beamed. “We’ll gather as much information as we can and then have a brainstorm after Dragonstone. If… if you want, Princess.”

“I do.” A buzz of excitement washed over her. “I want to help, do good in the world.”

“We can advocate it as your focus issue, once we know more, Princess.”

Little Marcie’s face, babbling and fussing over Jon’s ribbon-braided hair, popped into her mind again. “Definitely.”

Missandei bounced on her toes. “I’ll go start researching!”

She hurried for the door, but Dany called her back. For a moment, Dany hesitated, then she gave Missandei a very quick hug.

“Thank you. I’m glad I’ve got you on my team.”

If Missandei was startled by the affection, she didn’t show it. “Me, too. Nobody else would give me a chance at a job like this. But it was no contest, right?”

Even as Missandei laughed, Dany frowned. “No contest?”

“When I was here for the final interview.” Missandei’s smile slipped. “He… that’s why you weren’t there. Tyrion said you knew you wanted me just from my resumé.”

_ That clever little sneak. _

But again, Tyrion’s handiwork had done so much in her favor. To support her. He’d covered her clumsy absence and bolstered Missandei’s confidence in one shot. Just as he’d devised a foolproof way for her to see Jon once again. Dany hitched up her smile.

“Oh, right. You were the clear choice. Besides,” Dany added, “it’s nice to have someone who isn’t a grumpy, middle-aged man around.”

They shared a good laugh as Ser Barristan shifted by the open balcony doors. He shut both tight, then locked them. As Missandei left, Dany returned to her favorite chair. She scooped her book up and set it on the little table with Missandei’s. Outside, an indigo dusk was falling toward the sea, like an eyelid shutting on the world.

“Do you think Tyrion is busy?”

Her sworn shield cleared his throat. “Probably, Princess, but he is here to advise you, as you need.”

“Not for advice,” Dany decided. “I owe him my gratitude, I think. And an apology, too.”

Ser Barristan stepped into the lamplight as Dany traced the grooved outline of the black dragon on her book.

“It’s past time I took responsibility for myself. All of myself.”

“As you say, Princess.”

“No, as I decide. And lead.”

 

* * *

 

The Targaryen host departed for Dragonstone Wednesday afternoon, a day ahead of their first guests. Dany sat with Missandei for the short flight to Dragonstone’s private airstrip. They whispered and stared out the windows, admiring Blackwater Bay’s curved white caps and the stringy clouds that thickened the closer they came to their destination. All the while, Tyrion eyed them over the top of his book, looking pleased.

Dragonstone came into sight abruptly. Their plane descended into Dragonmont’s clotted black plumes of ash, breaking through to the dull sky on the underside. Before them the volcano’s rim smoldered like a robust sunset, trails of lava running down its steep slopes like veins. Dragonmont dominated the western half of the island, its molten innards oozing down to form new shores. Every year the island grew larger. On the eastern side, atop the sharp granite cliffs, the Targaryen ancestral fortress clawed toward the sky. Every tower like a blade piercing the low clouds, a hundred stone dragons peering up at them from crenellations, balconies, and catwalks.

They landed under the glum sky, but an unrelenting joy filled Dany. She was home. Most of her childhood had been spent on Dragonstone, curled up in its library, exploring the castle’s endless corridors, even traversing across Aegon’s Garden and the windswept fields.

The castle’s staff escorted them to their prepared chambers. Dany made for her childhood room, but Tyrion directed her to a different wing of the royal family’s private tower. Revonations from a storm had shut her old room, he claimed, but after a quick exploration, Dany found the truth of it. A matching chamber adjoined hers via the balcony overlooking the winding stair to the private dock, with Ser Barristan’s smaller, security room between. 

She dreamt of Jon that night, sneaking from that room across their shared balcony to hers. Of his avid mouth waking her in the dead of night, ravaging her, pressing her thighs wide until she’d screamed herself hoarse from his tongue and teeth and fingers thrusting into her. Only then did he take her, pinning her knees to her chest, her calves resting against his firm shoulders. His cock filled her in one sure stroke, his pace relentless as his mouth sought hers.

A crack of thunder woke Dany. Rain pattered against the stone and windows. She shuddered at the pulse between her thighs, the deep ache of need her dream had left. Her hand was no match for the memory of Jon’s lustful mouth, though, and she stopped after a few firm rubs at her clit. Perhaps she could live that dream tonight. Jon arrived today.

Dany dressed as the morning storm rumbled across the island. By breakfast, the rain stopped and left a blanket of fog curled around the castle. She joined her mother and brother in their private dining room. Only their sworn shields and a server were present.

“You look lovely, Dany.” Rhaegar kissed her cheek, but his thin-lipped smile was strained. “At least one of us slept through that storm.”

He looked tired, Dany realized, as he took the seat beside her and across from their mother. Every year, he excommunicated himself to Summerhall for a week prior to Unification Day, and every time he came back haggard and more melancholy than before. Mourning his lost wife and children, she suspected, though Dany had never had the courage to ask.

As her Queen Mother took her first bite, Rhaegar and Dany took up their silverware. Plates of eggs, grilled tomatoes, crisp bacon, croissants and fresh, warm bagels covered the table. Dany ate a few bites of each, but her stomach was wriggling too much. Jon would be here in a few short hours. His radiant smile, the warm musk of his smell, and those silky, dark curls.

“That dress is a divine choice.” Rhaella gave Dany the smallest nod of approval. It was an elegant summer dress, scarlet with black lace trimmings. “I do  _ hope _ your guest’s attire is suited to match.”

Just as the compliment settled to a glow inside Dany, her mother’s words snuffed it out. She pressed her tongue against her teeth. Jon would dress accordingly, of that much she was certain.

“Jon’s well-versed in propriety, Mother. His father’s raised him a gentleman.”

Rhaella sipped her tea. “Indeed? I’ve done the annual Northern visit for almost thirty years, and have never once caught sight of him. Lord and Lady Stark never shied away from having their children in attendance.”

Rhaegar cleared his throat. “I expect Lord Stark’s kept him out of sight because of his birth, Mother. Nothing more.”

Dany nodded, trying not to wilt like a parched flower. She cut a piece off her grilled tomato and stabbed it with her fork. “Jon’s attended other feasts and events. Lord Reed knows him very well.” 

“A feast for lords and ladies is not on par with a royal affair.”

To make her point, Rhaella set her silverware down and nudged her plate away. Rhaegar set down the bagel he’d been about to bite into, and Dany swallowed her last bite of tomato. When the Queen was done, the entire meal was, too. No matter what was left on their own plates nor how hungry they may still be, the feast ended when the Queen was full. Rhaella rarely cut meals short intentionally, but her violet eyes watched Daenerys closely.

“Both Ser Barristan and Lord Tyrion had assured me that Jon Snow is suitable to attend our celebration. That his character is impeccable and his intentions honest.” Rhaella dabbed her lips with her napkin. “ _ But _ we cannot afford any surprises this weekend, Daenerys. Have you instructed him of his role?”

Dany stared at her plate. “No.”

She’d not even considered it during their call. Just hearing the deep, soothing lull of Jon’s voice had whisked everything but her invitation from her mind. Tyrion had sent Jon a basic itinerary, but that was it.

Rhaella frowned. “Does the boy even know how to greet us upon arrival?”

Dany almost admitted the truth. That she didn’t know, that her time with Jon had been limited and such an occasion had not occurred, but she held her tongue. Jon was already potentially walking into a maelstrom of aristocratic snubbing for his surname. He was doing that for her.

“He does,” Dany said, keeping her voice firm, hoping she was right. “I will handle any surprises that may arise, Mother. You have my word.”

Dany and Rhaegar stood for their mother’s departure, then slumped into their chairs once she was gone.

“Tyrion’s on thin ice with her,” Rhaegar said quietly. “She wasn’t happy about his invitation. If Jon should cause an upset...”

“He won’t. Jon isn’t like that.”

But she understood what her brother meant. Tyrion was risking his job if this weekend turned sour. If a single scandal came from it, she would be down an advisor and a friend. He’d been rather touched when she’d thanked him last week, but grim, too. So much was at stake with this, more than she’d realized. Far more than Jon could probably even comprehend.

Rhaegar’s dark eyes examined her face. “You trust he can handle this?”

“Yes.”

_ And if he cannot, it’s too late now. _

Together, Dany and Rhaegar headed down to the private dock to await Jon Snow. A royal guard had been sent to escort him by boat from Rook’s Rest to the island. He would be their first guest to arrive, separate from the rest. Dany waited with the royal party, a step behind and to the left of her mother’s elegant form. She tried not to fidget and adjust her tiara. Jon had never seen her in proper royal dress, not in person. Across the bay, a spray of water announced the boat’s approach.

Rhaegar reached behind their mother to give Dany’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

And then the boat was docking, the small group disembarking. Jon’s eyes caught hers, nervous but happy. He was dressed in a sharp, gray suit tailored to fit, a slim black tie clipped to his white shirt. His curls were a little damp from the boat ride, but brushed back and styled loosely; his beard neat and trimmed. 

Dany tensed as he and his escort approached, as her mother’s royal advisor announced her titles. She held her breath as Jon stopped before them. The right distance from the Queen, his eyes respectfully forward but not high enough to meet Rhaella’s gaze. Once the advisor finished, Jon dropped to one knee, his head bowed and hands folded on his upright thigh. Every inch of movement was perfect, down to his right hand resting on his left.

Rhaella remained still for several seconds, assessing him, then approached. She offered her hand, and Jon’s lips brushed her knuckles.

“Rise, Jon Snow, and welcome.”

He stood in a fluid movement, his eyes still respectfully lowered.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

Rhaella inquired of Jon’s father and stepmother, and Jon’s replies were simple. He offered no more than asked, did not hesitate in his answers. Articulate, respectful, and at ease. A knot of pride tightened in Dany’s chest as her mother called her forward. 

“You have already met my daughter, of course. Daenerys.” 

Rhaella turned her head just enough to catch Dany’s eyes. Dany kept her steps measured, tried not to let her polite smile burst into a full-blown grin. She offered Jon her hand.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Jon.”

He bowed appropriately, kissed her hand, but his lips lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Their eyes met when he straightened, and a throb of need rushed through Dany. To bury herself in his arms, to press her nose to his skin and nip his throat with her teeth.

“And you, Princess. Thank you for inviting me to Dragonstone. It’s an honor to be here.”

Rhaella motioned to her right side. “And my son, Crown Prince Rhaegar.”

Silence followed her words. Prolonged and out of place. Dany glanced away from Jon, past her mother to her brother. He was still standing back with their sworn shields, face ashen. He looked for all the world as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Rhaegar,” Rhaella said, her voice commanding, “won’t you come meet your sister’s guest?”

Even then, her brother stayed frozen. His indigo eyes were fixed on Jon, but Dany couldn’t understand his expression, the startled pain in his gaze. She saw Ser Arthur nudge Rhaegar, and finally, he moved.

Jon seemed unsure as Rhaegar shook his hand and welcomed him. But her brother was all polite interest and easy smiles. He slipped into his public face like a well-worn pair of shoes. Dany watched him as the royal party returned to the castle, but whatever that moment had been was lost. Rhaegar was the Crown Prince, performing perfectly for their new guest.

“You’ll be housed in the royal tower,” Rhaegar told Jon, but despite his easy voice, he refused to look at Jon for more than an instant. “Daenerys can show you to your chambers. I must get ready to greet our next arrivals.”

He shook Jon’s hand once more, pecked Dany’s cheek, and hurried off with their mother. Dany ushered Jon in to his room, Ser Barristan at their heels. After her knight set Jon’s bag beside the small writing desk, Dany motioned for him to retreat. He left the door cracked, but returned to the hall.

“Wow, this is impressive.” Jon gazed around the room, taking in the sturdy wood furnishings, the enormous canopied bed. “My entire apartment could fit in here.”

The chamber was half the size of her rooms back in King’s Landing, but Dany didn’t say it. Instead she caught Jon’s hand and pulled him into her arms. For a few minutes, they lingered in a tight embrace. She pressed her nose against his throat, smelled the sweet cinnamon and chilled spice of peppermint. His pulse ticked under her cheek, skipping along at a quick pace.

“I missed you.” 

Dany smiled at his words, leaned back just enough to see his face.

“Your tiara’s crooked,” Jon said, brushing a finger along it. 

He stroked her cheek next, and Dany shivered as his hand caressed her neck. She kissed him, digging her fingers into the thick curls on the back of his head. Jon met her eagerly, his mouth dropping open, pressing harder against hers. His tongue brushed her bottom lip, his teeth giving a stinging tug…

And then a throat cleared nearby. 

They broke apart, a little breathless and flushed, to find Tyrion watching them from the doorway.

“Princess, the welcoming party begins soon.” He turned to Jon, looking him up and down. “Hello again, Bastard of Winterfell.”

It was a crude greeting, but a jest if the quirk of Tyrion’s lips meant anything. She glanced at Jon, expecting anger or shame, but he smirked instead.

“It’s good to see you, Dwarf of Casterly Rock.”

Flabbergasted, Dany watched the two men shake hands, all smiles in their private joke. She kept a hold of Jon’s arm all the while.

“Well, you’ve certainly grown up since I last saw you,” Tyrion said, still taking in Jon’s appearance. “It’s been… gods, almost nine years to the day.”

“Very close.” Jon noticed her confusion. “Tyrion and his family visited Winterfell for my father’s Unification Day celebration one year.”

“As I recall, you were quite brooding, as only a fourteen-year-old can be.”

Jon laughed. “Aye, still can be, the way my siblings tell it.”

As Jon and Tyrion caught up, the three of them headed outside to Aegon’s Garden. A small welcoming party had been set up for today’s arrivals. Nothing too fancy, just tea and biscuits, some champagne for those eager to indulge themselves. While her mother and brother greeted guests on the main dock, it was Dany’s job to welcome them here. She left Jon and Tyrion for a time to mingle. All the usual guests were present: the Martell siblings, Lord Yronwood, Ser Arthur’s sister and nephew, the Tyrells of Highgarden. Only when her brother appeared with tiny old Lady Olenna on his arm did Dany return to Tyrion and Jon. They’d settled at a table by the central dragon fountain, all smiles as they talked.

“I see you two are having fun.” 

And it pleased her that Jon was relaxed, that if nothing else he’d found one conversation companion for the weekend that wasn’t her. 

“Nine years is a lot to catch up on.” Jon glanced at the small crowd that had gathered, cleared his throat. “I see Lady Olenna is up to her usual ways.”

Across the garden, Lady Olenna had found the biggest glass at the serving table and was coaching one poor waiter through filling it to the rim with champagne.

“You know her?”

Jon nodded. “Robb’s wife is her granddaughter. I went to school with her grandsons for a time, too.”

That put her even more at ease, despite the number of looks she and Jon were beginning to draw. She was responsible for introducing him, of making a unwavering show of support for his presence. Dany steeled herself, took his hand as he stood. Just then, her mother’s royal escort entered the garden, and all activity ceased. As one, the gathering dropped to a knee as the Queen joined them.

“Welcome, once again, to Dragonstone, my lords and ladies.” Queen Rhaella took the steps into the garden slowly, letting her gown rustled on the stone. The people rose to their feet. She accepted a flute of champagne from a waiter. “Please, enjoy the refreshments and entertainment.”

A great boom echoed from the shore, the sound ricocheting through the gaps between towers and crenellations. High above, a ruby explosion lit the sky. The gathering turned in delight, watching the firework display. It hadn’t been planned, but Dany beamed at the sight as a second, third, and fourth boom engulfed the air in quick succession.

In her hand, Jon’s grip turned to stone. She glanced at him as the crowd laughed and cheered. His entire body had gone rigged. Not a breath escaped him.

“Jon?”

It was as if he couldn’t hear her, not even when she drew closer and said his name a second time in his ear. He flinched with the next series of explosions, the muscles in his jaw so pronounced Dany worried they’d never unbunch. She glanced at Tyrion, who looked just as worried.

“You alright, Snow?”

Tyrion’s hand on Jon’s elbow brought his first shaky breath. Jon blinked, swallowed, but his eyes were far-off, unseeing. His arm trembled against her. It was Ser Barristan who figured it out first.

“Princess, the fireworks,” he said, leaning in. “Jon was a combat soldier, the explosions, the flashes…”

Rhaegar and Ser Arthur chose that moment to appear. Like Ser Barristan, her brother’s sworn shield took one look at Jon’s frantic eyes and stepped in. 

“Get him inside, away from the noise.” Ser Arthur nodded to Dany. “Nobody will notice your absence for a while.”

And she did, with Ser Barristan’s help they led Jon away from the crowd and continued pops of light and sound. Through a side entrance and down a corridor, but even there the noise felt like it was falling from the sky. Jon moved without force, but he was muttering, his eyes still distant. Dany kept a tight hold of his hand, a rush of panic pattering through her chest, but she reigned it in. She couldn’t lose her head with Jon in such a state.

They wound their way across the castle, to the royal tower and upstairs to Jon’s room. Here the noise was dampened by the distance and the thick stone walls. Ser Barristan pulled the curtains closed the windows and balcony doors, turned the bedside lamp on. He watched Jon carefully for a moment as Dany sat with him on the bed.

“I’ll be at the door, Princess, if you need me.”

Ser Barristan squeezed Jon’s shoulder and left, shutting the door behind him. 

“Jon? It’s okay, I’m… I’m right here with you.”

She had no idea what to do or say. His eyes were still glazed, unfocused. His bottom lip trembled. A tear ran down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and then kept repeating it.

“It’s fine, Jon, don’t worry about that.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Dany held him tight, resting his face against her neck, rocking him slowly. Very quickly, she realized whoever Jon was apologizing to wasn’t her. A ghost of his past, someone she suspected was long gone from their world. All she could do was hold on to him as he shook and mumbled, and finally, after almost a quarter of an hour, Jon’s repetitive whispers faded. His hands clutched her waist.

“Dany?”

His voice was a harsh rasp. She kissed his forehead and stroked his neck.

“Yeah, I’m right here.”

“ _ Fuck _ .” Jon wiped his cheeks, but he was paler than she’d ever seen him. Little shivers rocked his body. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Shh, it’s fine.” His eyes were still darting about when he sat up. “What do you need?”

Jon stuttered, scrubbed at his beard. Dany bent to pull his shoes off, eased his suit jacket off his shoulders, and his tie from his neck. She nudged him back against the pillows where he settled quietly against her side.

“Just… keep talking.”

The request startled her. All she could think of was Jon, or whatever horror he’d just been sucked back into, of the panic and fear burrowing into him.

“About what?”

“A-anything. Anything else.”

She cast her eye around the room, but nothing struck her. Then Jon’s own voice came wafting up from her memories, of their first night together, as he talked about nothing and everything while she drifted off to sleep.

“I was born here on Dragonstone,” Dany began, rubbing Jon’s back and cradling his head against her shoulder, “in the hushed eye of a hurricane that my mother named me for. I grew up here, too. One time, I snuck off from Ser Barristan to see if I could find the obsidian caves under Dragonmont…”

Dany talked until her throat was raw and her lips cracked. Nestled against her side, Jon’s breathing steadied, his tight grip on her waist loosened. But still she whispered tales of her childhood to him just in case his dreams decided to haunt him, too. She sunk down into the pillows, her eyelids heavy as she tried in vain to finish one last tale from when Viserys had bet her she’d never scale the walls of Sea Dragon Tower. Her mother had found her four stories high, but still she’d kept climbing. All the way up to the old rookery, but instead of the dusty storage boxes she found Jon up there, ready to pull her through the window.

“What took you so long?” he asked, cheerful-eyed and beaming. “I was starting to worry.”

Dany kissed him deeply, until her jaw ached and her lips hurt from trying to smile and kiss at the same time. “I’m here,” she whispered as he nuzzled her cheek. “I’m never going anywhere, so don’t you dare go where I cannot follow, Jon Snow.”

“And leave you behind? Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments and critiques welcome, as always.
> 
> Next up is Rhaegar, the one long awaited. Probably going to be a bit of a wait. November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), for those who don't know, and I'm participating as I do every year. :) 50,000 words in 30 days, what could go wrong? The good news is I'm using another Jonerys idea for it, so if I'm successful you'll get another fic out of it, haha. But writing for Embers will probably be slow this month. I usually average a little under half of 50k a month, so... yeah. Trying to double that just for NaNoWriMo and THEN this, is unlikely. But who knows? Surprises happen every day. Time to flex my writing muscles and see what I can accomplish!
> 
> After Rhaegar, we'll have Jon, Dany, Tyrion, and Jon again! I'm pretty much got the order and a general outline sorted. So, yay, achievement!
> 
> But, yeah, next update... late November? It'll depend on how NaNoWriMo goes. If that fizzles out (because ~1.7k a day for a month is INSANE) then I'll hop back to Embers. 
> 
> Cheers, dears, and I'll see you next time :)


	10. RHAEGAR I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVED -insert Mushu rising from the ashy smoke gif here-
> 
> I have not forgotten, though getting back into the Modern AU was tough. But I return, with the Rhaegar Chapter that Was Promised. Hot damn, here we go. I'll save the rest of my comments until after the show!
> 
> Enjoy!

Nights on Dragonstone gave new meaning to darkness. 

Rhaegar hurried through the echoing corridors, Ser Arthur at his heel, as the crowd of lords, ladies, and guests made their way toward their accommodations across the castle. His heart beat out her name against his ribs.

“My prince, we’re meant to be—”

“Her Grace can attend our guests.” Rhaegar turned a corner, then ascended a spiral stone staircase into the royal wing two steps at a time. He couldn’t see Ser Arthur’s expression, but over thirty years together made him certain his sworn shield was glowering. “They’ll see plenty of me this weeknd.”

“ _ Rhaegar _ , it’s enough that Daenerys left earlier.”

“It’s fine.”

He was a step into the corridor where Daenerys’s and Jon’s adjacent rooms were located, when Ser Arthur’s massive hand caught his arm. His knight tugged him back around the corner, glowering just as Rhaegar had expected. His shadowy facial hair was splattered with a crisp gray, his skin paler than the golden brown of youth, but Ser Arthur’s violet eyes were still a volatile violet. He glanced around the turn, then up and down the dim corridor they stood in. They were alone. Jaw clenched, Ser Arthur gave him a hard shake.

“The boy needs calm, rest. Not us bursting in to  _ no end _ .”

“To no end? He’s—”

“With Daenerys,” Ser Arthur reminded him. “We aren’t needed.”

“He’s  _ family _ .” 

Rhaegar’s voice filled the corridor, high and tight. He glanced about, too. Nobody appeared, no soft scuffles of shoes or quiet breaths. A grimace stiffened his face. Losing control now could not happen, not after his misstep at the dock, Jon’s panic attack, and Daenerys’s subsequent disappearance from the welcoming party. Yet the very sight of the boy had fractured Rhaegar’s heart to pieces. His dark curls and gray eyes and long face. Features he’d not seen for decades in person. 

“He’s family, Arthur,” Rhaegar repeated more quietly, “whether Jon knows it or not.”

_ He can’t possibly know. Nobody knows what happened, except… no. _

Arthur sighed, glanced down the corridor once more, then relented.

“Five minutes, to check on him.”

Rhaegar turned and continued to Jon’s room, tried to pace his footsteps, but it was no use. He was almost jogging by the time they reached the door. 

“The Queen will expect us shortly.”

“I know.”

Of course he knew. After forty-six years as the crown prince, Rhaegar understood better than anyone his mother’s expectations. Nobody living understood Queen Rhaella Targaryen as well as he did. He’d be made to answer for his sudden departure before all of their guests had retired. More so, for his flub while greeting Daenerys’s guest earlier. 

Jon Snow. 

Emotion clotted in Rhaegar’s throat.

_ I should have prepared better, I should have expected this. Instead, I’m acting a complete fool. _

The door was shut tight. Nobody answered Rhaegar’s soft knock, nor the harder one that followed. Ser Arthur seemed glad, opened his mouth to no doubt suggest they returned to his chambers the floor above, when the wall to their left slid open. A thinning head of white hair appeared, Ser Barristan’s familiar countenance peering out at them.

Rhaegar cleared his throat, tried to lock himself back into his princely facade. “Ser Barristan, my apologies for the hour. I was hoping to check on our guest and my sister after earlier.”

The old knight glanced at Rhaegar and then Ser Arthur, who did nothing to hide his exasperation. He waved them into his narrow chamber, the walls outfitted with a dozen security camera screens, and other various high-tech sensors Rhaegar scarcely understood. A small bed was against the far wall, lost in the dim gloom. Every guard room was the same. Windowless, small, full of security equipment and a few comforts. They stepped inside the space, the wall panel sliding shut behind them.

“Princess Daenerys and Jon Snow are asleep.” Ser Barristan gestured at the wall of cameras, all providing different views of the chambers on either side. “He’s fine now.”

Rhaegar gazed at the pristine pictures. None of them were labeled, not on screen nor otherwise, but he figured out which room was which quick enough. The shots of the empty bed were Daenerys’s chambers. Jon’s bed was occupied, Daenerys and him curled up together under the blankets. His throat tightened further.

“That’s good,” Rhaegar said, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m glad he’s feeling better. I wanted to check before I meet with Her Grace.”

Ser Barristan seemed to suspect more of a motive. Still, he nodded and sat down on the end of his bed. “They’re both fine, though it may be best to not mention the current sleeping arrangements.”

“Unless you expect that to change, I see no other way.”

His sister’s sworn shield didn’t reply. Just as Rhaegar had assumed, the pair were already advancing in their relationship. Physical intimacy was not something his sister had ever shied away from. He almost asked Ser Barristan then what had happened at Greywater Watch. The pair seemingly alone in a hotel room for two nights, with only each other as distractions. Nothing but time to get to know one another in whatever way they decided. Daenerys was the person to ask, though, not her knight.

_ But now isn’t the time for that _ .

Rhaegar thanked Ser Barristan and departed. Ser Arthur kept pace at his side this time, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The greatsword was decorative more than practical these days, but Arthur was lethal no matter what weapon was in hand. His friend and sworn shield, a man as close to an older brother as Rhaegar would ever get. They were rarely apart, shared secrets beyond count.

_ Some more dangerous than others,  _ Rhaegar reflected as they headed upstairs. His chambers and his mother’s resided one floor above. Jon’s features flashed before his eyes again like the sharp pain of a knife. Dark and comely, a Stark to the end. They faded before his eyes, the cheeks going smooth and round, the features more gentle like hers had been. Rhaegar shook himself as he knocked on his mother’s door.

Queen Rhaella was not pleased with him.

“If you’re attempting to make your sister look better by mirroring her behavior, I can assure you that it is not working.”

Ser Arthur gave his customary bow, and then stationed himself at the door. Rhaegar remained standing as she took a seat before her vanity. 

“That was not my intention, Mother.” Rhaegar hooked his hands behind his back so she wouldn’t see him knotting his fingers together. An old habit he’d discovered comfort in as a small boy and never quite outgrown. To this day, she scolded him whenever she spotted it. “When Daenerys did not return, I worried that—”

“Yes, that she’d snuck off with her  _ guest _ .” Rhaella scoffed, lifted her silver crown from her head and set it aside. “What Tyrion was thinking, inviting a… a  _ booty call _ along for our most publicized event—”

“It’s not like that,” Rhaegar said before he could catch him. “He’s a former combat soldier, Mother. The fireworks weren’t planned. He didn’t know until it happened. PTSD, or a panic attack, technically, because of all the flashes and booms. She got him out of the garden before it caused a scene.”

Rhaella’s fingers faltered as she unwound her braids. For once, she looked guilty. It was a rare sight on the queen, even in private these days. More a glimpse of the mother he’d grown up with than the monarch she’d become. As a boy, Rhaegar had watched that shame-filled glance a thousand times, whenever his father’s cruel remarks were met with her silence. She eased her hairbrush from its cradle, ran it through her hair a few times, then turned to him.

“Is he well now?”

“Sleeping.” He waited a beat before adding, “Daenerys is with him.”

Rhaella nodded, then continued to brush out her long hair. No matter her title, his mother always insisted on doing her own hair. The sight was soothing, brought back the flowery scent of warm, honey perfumes as he’d sat on her lap forty years ago. Despite being the oldest, Rhaegar had somehow always found himself to be the baby among his siblings. Too many years with just the pair of them, silent and pretending with Aerys on the throne. By the time Viserys came along, Rhaegar had been a teenager, almost grown. Their father stuck to Viserys’s side, and never allowed him to be alone with Rhaegar or Rhaella. With Daenerys, Aerys had not cared at all. A bride for his preferred son was all he saw. For Viserys, once Rhaegar was removed.

_ The heir he wanted, who thought him the sun, not expecting the burn. _

“As long as they are discrete,” Rhaella said, though she did not look thrilled. “Did you have a chance to speak with Jon Snow?”

Rhaegar shook his head. “I got to them just as the fireworks started. Tyrion seemed to enjoy their reunion. He spoke highly of Jon afterward.”

“Tyrion Lannister enjoys a great many things.” 

He couldn’t refute that. Despite Tyrion’s impressive political maneuvering abilities, the man had a penchant for indulgence. Rhaegar took a seat in the window cushion beside her. She continued her careful brushing, but her eyes were distant in the mirror.

“Jon seems well-versed in aristocratic pageantry,” he said carefully. “His arrival and greeting were impeccable.”

“Yes,” Rhaella agreed, “ _ his _ were.”

Rhaegar swallowed. His stomach contracted with a small jolt. “Forgive me, it will not happen again.”

Instead of speaking, Rhaella fixed her gaze on him as she brushed. Steady, expectant, but curious, too.

“He… reminded me of someone.”

“Someone,” his mother echoed.

_ Lyanna _ , his heart said, beating her name out like a bruise in every vein.  _ Before I drove her off. She was right to leave, and wrong to trust me. _

He cleared his throat, unable to meet Rhaella’s eyes. “It hardly matters after so many years. I was caught off-guard, that’s all.”

_ “We could stay right here, at Summerhall,” Lyanna said, smiling and twirling in the dusty rays of sunlight. Her dark curls fanned out around her. “You and I, have everything we both want.” _

Yet little of what they’d each wanted had slotted together. Hindsight had dulled the last vestiges of any bright-eyed, youthful naivety he’d had. Lyanna had longed for freedom and a simple life, not a royal spotlight with plastered smiles and endless bowing. They’d been less a puzzle finding its missing piece and more of a bomb discovering its fuse.

_ I should have seen that, even if she could not. _

Rhaella allowed his explanation, weak as it was. She settled back into brushing her sleek hair, eyeing him in the mirror every now and again.

“Keep tabs on him.” Her lilac eyes caught his. “And your sister. You’ll give him a guided tour tomorrow, as scheduled.”

Despite Ser Barristan and Tyrion vouching for Jon Snow’s character, Rhaella had not been convinced back in King’s Landing. Every man had one desire, Rhaella insisted, even those of pure heart. Both his mother and Daenerys seemed to have learned that the hard way. To her, Jon Snow would eventually prove to be more of the same. Not a positive influence on Dany, nor good for her personal life or her future. Just another horny, greedy man, eager for fame or sex or money.

_ He’s not the type, none of the Starks are. _

“Of course.” 

Though Rhaegar dreaded it now that he’d gotten a look at the boy. He should have prepared more for the holiday. Looked at the newspaper stories published in the last week after Jon’s identity was revealed. Stared at his long face and dark curls until he saw only the man and not remnants of a dream he wasn’t meant to have.

Instead he’d gone to wallow at Summerhall for half of August, to mourn everything lost and hidden, in the dusty, half-refurbished husk of a castle. To dream the same dreams that had haunted him for two decades. Of Lyanna’s radiant smile, and promises never kept; a beautiful, young spirit cut short. Elia’s deep trust, and his children’s tiny faces; to imagine each of them grown and proud and happy, with families of their own now. His grandchildren, nameless and faceless—lifeless. He’d never have another child of his own blood. Rhaegar had made sure of that.

 

* * *

 

Morning arrived under a blanket of mist. Rhaegar’s day began with a high-profile breakfast amongst the Westerosi Parliament members in attendance. Daenerys and Rhaella attended to the secondary breakfast with the remaining guests. He smiled and made small-talk, discussed the political climate of the various provinces present, and more so, the trade agreement with the cities across the Narrow Sea. He swallowed his yawns with his food, and paraded himself around as was expected of him.

By mid-day, his lack of sleep hung heavy in his limbs. Nightmares had kept him up until dawn, shadowed with dead promises and a smile that would forever haunt him. The Queen, however, was ever watchful as their guests joined her in the garden. Most of the lords and ladies separated into their preferred groups. Some were colleagues in Parliament, others were family or family friends. This year’s gathering was sparse compared to last year. Only four of the provinces were represented, with the North, the Westerlands, and the Vale all absent. No Lannisters in sight besides Tyrion was a joy, though Lord Kevan was not callous as Tywin had been. 

Daenerys arrived last, resplendent in a flowing lilac gown and matching tiara, her arm linked with Jon Snow’s. Together, they drew the attention of the entire gathering. Even when Rhaegar was expecting the startling sight of him, he still flinched. Lyanna’s smiling face morphed to anger, then faded away.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Ser Arthur muttered from his right side.

Rhaegar glared at him before heading into the crowd to mingle. He kept his sister and her guest in sight whenever he could, watching. Waiting.

The Martells spent close to an hour with him. Doran reminisced about Elia and their lost children. Arianne filled Rhaegar in on Dorne’s latest law changes and her re-election to lead the Dornish Assembly, and her brother spoke of his studies. Next was Lord Renly Baratheon, more glimmering smile than man. He was a popular, prominent voice in the Stormlands, however. His husband, Loras, was in attendance, too, but sitting with his own family, the Tyrells. Rhaegar made his way to them, surprised to find Jon Snow on his own amongst them, sitting at ease with Lady Olenna’s robust personality.

Rhaegar steeled himself to join, resolved to stay calm, when the current Tyrell representative caught him.

“Ten dragons says Grandmother tries to sit in his lap.”

Willas Tyrell smiled at him, rolling to a stop in his wheelchair. He was the oldest of Lady Olenna’s grandsons, would have been the official heir to the Tyrell fortune a century past. A plain face wrapped in soft brown curls, but the warmest smile at the gathering. Even as a boy, Willas’s genuine happiness could light up a room. At twenty-six, he was a man of many trades: a member of the Rose Council in the Reach, the leader and founder of the Westerosi Committee for People with Disabilities, and a new professor of political science at Golden Rose University. Of the Tyrells, he was the closest Rhaegar had to a favorite. Calm, intelligent, and an easy conversationalist.

“I doubt my sister would appreciate such a scene.”

“Jon wouldn’t either.”

Familiarity brightened Willas’s words. They shook hands and found a table nearby. 

Daenerys was across the garden, mingling with the Tullys’ entourage, making the same balanced rounds as expected. All smiles, a true beauty under the hazy summer sun. Rhaegar turned his attention back to Lady Olenna and Jon Snow. They were smiling and laughing as they talked. Jon was completely at ease with her, despite some of the glances he was still attracting. 

“She’s done it before,” Willas said, accepting a glass of wine from a passing server. “At my sister’s wedding.”

The connection clicked then. The oldest Stark boy had married Margaery, Willas’s younger sister. By marriage, Jon was family to them.

His gaze lingered on Jon, his swept back dark curls, his eye color too difficult to recognize from a distance, but that smile… gods, that smile.

_ Exactly Lyanna’s smile _ , Rhaegar thought,  _ as best I can remember.  _

“My prince?”

Willas’s voice startled him. He found the younger man watching him in concern, but brushed it off easily.

“My apologies, the storm kept me up last night,” Rhaegar said without missing a beat. Dragonstone, at least, always had that built in excuse. Near every night, a storm raged across the island, left the mornings misty like a great dragon of old was waking from under the rock with its steaming breath.“I’ve never slept well on Dragonstone.”

“I sleep like a brick. Doesn’t matter where,” Willas offered. He sipped his wine, and glanced over at Jon and Lady Olenna once more, following Rhaegar’s drifting gaze. “He’s a good guy. I daresay Princess Daenerys would be hard pressed to find better. Grandmother is very fond of him.”

“You know him well?” Rhaegar was careful with his words, mindful of all the lingering lords who might be in earshot.

Willas nodded. “We were at school together, briefly. His sister, Sansa, is actually one of my students. Bright young woman, a lot of great ideas. Revolutionary even.”

“I did wonder which Stark would pursue politics,” Rhaegar said, though it was mindless small talk instead of true. He’d avoided the Starks for over twenty years, did his best not to think of them at all. To never see Ned Stark again, least difficult truths come to light. Mother might never forgive him, if she found out what he’d done. “The North has elected quite a number of young women in recent years.”

“The world’s changing,” Willas agreed. “For the better, I think, since Her Grace ascended the throne. Sansa has been crafting a rough draft for the legislation she hopes to run on after she graduates. Perhaps before, if we can garner the support. She’s certain to have mine.”

His political upbringing kicked in. Rhaegar forced his eyes away from Jon Snow and back to Willas. “What sort of legislation is she interested in?”

“To outlaw the practice of bastard surnames from the realm.” Willas smiled at Rhaegar’s raised eyebrows. “Retroactively and moving forward. First through our own provinces, most likely, as Dorne is doing now. Then for Westeros entirely.”

“She’s certainly bold.”

_ Like her aunt. A Stark through and through. _

“Jon was her inspiration,” Willas confessed. “He was the first person I thought of, too, when she submitted the proposal for her project.”

Rhaegar nodded, but caught his gaze drifting toward Jon this time. He was being far too obvious in his attentions and yet, it was impossible not to look at him wearing Lyanna’s features. More solemn, perhaps, and a decidedly masculine take, like her brother, Brandon, and yet… Not as plain as the Stark men that remained. That same wild beauty lingered in the lines of his face, fierce but somehow gentle, too. His chest shriveled.

“The practice is archaic nowadays,” Rhaegar said. “A remnant of a time long gone. Children deserve the best chance to excel, to not be held back by their parents’ mistakes or shortcomings. Would… would they take their mother’s name or their father’s?”

“Either would be accepted, if Sansa has her way.” Willas chuckled. “She’s stubborn on that point. Jon’s a Stark to all of them in everything but name.”

“He certainly has the look.” Rhaegar cleared his throat. “You said you went to school with him?”

A brief nod from Willas, then he took another sip of wine. “We didn’t like each other much, I’m afraid. I looked down on him when he arrived at Long Lake. A bastard boy amongst a bunch of high lord’s sons… we all treated him like scum except for Robb. Didn’t help that he proved himself just as capable as everyone else. He made himself twice the target he already was for being a Snow.”

“But you’re friends now?”

“Distant these days, but yes.” A great belly laugh shook Willas. “Gods, I hated him back then. Thought him some jumped up freshman Snow, at a prestigious academy just because his father was a lord. As if I wasn’t there for the same exact reason. My friends and I always went out of our way to rile him up. Jon made it easy, unfortunately. Temper like a volcano back then. Now, you could punch him right here in the open, and I doubt he’d bat an eye.”

“Quite a reversal, by the sounds of it.”

“Jon’s been through a lot since then,” Willas said. “The army and the Wall change a person.”

“Yes, I’d heard he spent time there,” Rhaegar agreed, trying not to pry, but the blackmark was still unexplained. Since the end of his sentence, Jon had proven to be an admirable man. His life was devoted to service, to helping others. Ser Barristan, of all people, had vouched that the reason for Jon’s time at the Wall was no cause for concern.

“Three years.” Willas frowned, took a deeper gulp of wine, spinning the glass between his hands. “He’d probably say we’re all better for what happened back then, but he’s wrong. His brothers are. And I am, thanks to him, but Jon didn’t deserve to take the fall alone.”

Instead of elaborating, Willas finished the rest of his wine and grabbed a small cheese plate from a passing server. Rhaegar accepted one as well, watchful as the younger man took a few slow bites, brow furrowed and eyes troubled. Finally, Rhaegar couldn’t stand it.

“What happened?”

“Jon saved my life.”

He seemed quite ashamed to say it, but Willas nodded to himself, then watched Jon as he tried to detach himself from Lady Olenna. The elderly woman was like a suction cup on his arm. Rhaegar waited the silence out, and slowly, Willas explained. A teenage prank war had gone too far, thinking themselves clever instead of cruel. Eventually, Willas had found himself on the wrong side of a disastrous prank. He’d been hoisted into the air by his now paralyzed leg, knocked unconscious, bleeding from the head.

“Jon stayed to stop the bleeding,” Willas told him. “By the time I came around in the hospital, he’d already said he was acting alone. Nobody believed me when I said there’d been two other boys. Said it was my concussion talking, or the meds they had me on. They were all so eager to punish him. To prove their beliefs right, when they couldn’t be more wrong. When I finally got to see Jon before the trial, to tell him I remembered and could be a witness for the truth, he refused.”

“He refused?” Rhaegar muttered in disbelief. “But  _ why _ ? Life at the Wall is…”

That truth went without saying. Cold, gruelling, hard. Brittle like early winter ice coating a pond. Rhaegar glanced across the garden to where Daenerys had arrived to rescue Jon from Lady Olenna’s clutches. 

“He asked me to lie and say it was all him,” Will admitted, looking uncomfortable. “To keep Robb out of trouble, so he could stay at school and so Lady Stark wouldn’t blame him for Robb getting expelled, too. He begged it of me, said we could call ourselves even if I did. I mean, he’d just saved my life, and I… I couldn’t refuse him, much as it baffled me at the time. I didn’t get it until later, and I regret it, knowing where he ended up. After I heard he’d been sent to the Wall, I tried to tell the truth. To free him at least, but Dad wouldn’t believe me. Only Grandmother did. She’s quite fond of Jon. It took Robb telling my father the truth a few years back for him to accept it.”

The whole tale was a mess, of corruption and prejudice. It stunk of the old ways that his mother had slowly been eradicating since being crowned. Rhaegar bit his lip to keep from snarling. For Jon to have been at such a prestigious academy was remarkable, but to give it all up for his brother’s sake…

Across the garden, Daenerys had finally succeeded in reclaiming Jon from Olenna. Rhaegar watched them mingle with the Martells and the other Dornish lords, then join Tyrion at a table in the corner. Already, Tyrion had emptied half a dozen wine glasses on his own. He stood then.

“Thank you for the conversation, Lord Tyrell. As always, it’s a pleasure. Please, excuse me.”

“Of course, my prince.”

Rhaegar arrived at his sister’s table just as Queen Rhaella made the announcement for the Ladies’ Only Afternoon Tea in her private solar. In truth, it wasn’t anywhere near his mother’s chambers, but it was a popular event nevertheless. Daenerys gave Jon’s hand a squeeze, his little flicker of uncertainty easy for Rhaegar to catch in those startling gray eyes.

“I’ll see you for dinner,” Daenerys told him. “On the balcony, okay?”

“Sure.” Jon stood with her, kissed her offered hand, though he seemed much more interested in kissing her lips. They both leaned in a few inches, then caught themselves. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Dany smiled, full and radiant. Her eyes gleamed in the afternoon light, and for a second, Rhaegar forgot to breathe. He’d never seen her look so happy. Carefree, certainly. As a little girl, growing up here, Daenerys had been bright and happy and smiling all the time. King’s Landing and her teenage years dimmed her.

“I’ll leave you in my brother’s capable hands since Tyrion clearly needs a chaperone.” Daenerys flicked one of his empty wine glass, left its tinkling ring in her wake. “Rhaegar, be gentle with him.”

She departed with the other ladies, escorting Lady Olenna on her arm, chatting and smiling. 

An uncomfortable silence fell around the remaining men. Most departed for their assigned chambers or to partake in Dragonstone’s natural beauties. Rhaegar cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of Ser Arthur’s tense presence behind him. Tyrion raised his last glass toward Jon.

“To you, bastard.”

Jon snorted. “Sober me likes drunk you a lot less than drunk me did.” He snatched Tyrion’s glass before it touched his lips. “I think that’s enough, Tyrion. Nobody’s going to carry you up a dozen flights of stairs.”

“I do keep insisting on mandatory elevator installations for a reason.” Tyrion sighed. “Fine, Snow. I suppose you need liquid courage more than I do right now. Enjoy the evening, whatever interests it may bring you.”

Tyrion ambled off, grinning and winking at Jon. 

“Forgive him,” Rhaegar said carefully. “Wine is his favorite hobby.”

“Aye, he tried to introduce it to me as a boy.” Jon squinted in the reflection of the sun glaring off the glass table. “So, uh…”

Awkward, nervous, suddenly Rhaegar could see ever stiff discomfort of Ned Stark in Jon’s face. Like a shadow hiding Lyanna’s features from sight. For a moment, it knocked him back. He shook it off.

“I was hoping to give you a private tour of the castle,” Rhaegar told him. “Perhaps, the island as well, if the weather holds up.”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean, yes, that would be wonderful.” Jon smiled, despite the muscle ticking in his jaw. “I can’t recall how to get back to my chambers anyway.”

Rhaegar couldn’t help but smile. None of the Starks he’d ever met had been particularly funny. Dry wit was a step in the right direction.

“Dragonstone is a labyrinth,” Rhaegar said as they left the garden and turned to a side door. He pointed at the massive tower in the distance, the Stone Drum, which had once served as the central keep. “That used to be the main keep, but it’s a museum of sorts these days. Do you see the tower beyond it?”

Jon squinted to where he was pointing. “The one shaped like a dragon?”

“The Windwyrm. We’re stay there whenever we visit Dragonstone. Come, we’ll start from the bottom and work our way over.”

His tour began along the perimeter wall around Aegon’s Garden as the servers cleaned up. History was a great joy of his, and while Jon didn’t seem overly interested, he was an attentive listener. His questions were thoughtful. Conversation was short, but easy. The garden’s piney scent followed them through the arch of the Dragon’s Tail where the salt of the sea took over. Every step grew easier, from the old sept to the Great Hall, the storage rooms of Sea Dragon Tower, and finally to the more touristy areas in the Stone Drum. The Chamber of the Painted Table gave Jon pause.

“Growing up, we were always told how big it is, but this is… wow.” 

Together, they circled the roped off table and the great stone chair that marked Dragonstone’s place. Fifty feet long, over twenty feet at its widest. Rhaegar gave Ser Arthur a nod and his knight shut the door on the guards outside. He unhooked one of the velvet ropes and nodded at the table.

“Go on, you can’t hurt it.”

Jon hesitated before stepping past him. Together, their shadows fell over the table, two sides of a triangle coming to a point at the Trident. Rhaegar traced his fingers over the table, up and down the dips in the carving, pausing his fingers at Summerhall. The entire room smelled of old varnish.

“Dany used to play on this,” Rhaegar said. He swallowed. “She used to climb all over it, no matter how much trouble she got in. Drove us all nuts, but… my daughter did the same while she was here.”

_ Rhaenys, my sweet girl. _

Jon’s fingers paused near Casterly Rock. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

Rhaegar cleared his throat. “She had this kitten, Balerion. Used to sneak in here and have him chase a laser across the table.”

His fingernails caught on Balerion’s tiny scratch marks. Twenty-three years since, but Rhaegar always checked the table every year for them. To reminder himself that his past wasn’t a nightmare haunting his dreams, but real. Tangible. He’d had a daughter. And a son. Elia, too, though it had never been love.

And Lyanna, afterward…

Jon’s hand came to rest on the table beside his. His fingers scratched at the tiny little grooves. “Rickon’s wolf, Shaggydog, got loose one night as a pup and chewed all the legs off Father’s desk.”

“Pups and kittens are… are like that.” He swallowed again, a great shiver running through him. His hand shook on the table until Jon’s caught his wrist and squeezed. “Forgive me, Jon.”

“Nothing to forgive, Your Grace.” Jon gave him another squeeze, then seemed to realize he was touching the crown prince without Rhaegar’s permission. He let go. “I’ve never lost a wife or had children of my own so I can’t imagine that, but I know what it’s like to love someone and lose them.”

“Who?”

It was impolite to ask, improper, too, but a welcome distraction from the faces dancing behind his eyelids. Elia seated beside him while they read poetry. Rhaenys wrapped around his leg, squealing as he ambled down the halls. Aegon just learning to stand with his beautiful, toothless smile. And Lyanna curled into his side, kissing him sweetly, dreaming of a better world…

He looked up at Jon and had to shut his eyes. The boy was too much to bare.

“Ygritte. She was my first… well, everything. We were soldiers together,” Jon said, his voice gruff and forced. “Had to be very secretive, but eventually, an operation went bad. An ambush, IEDs going off all over. My brother lost his leg. I got a chest full of shrapnel, and the rest of our unit… no survivors.”

Last night made more sense than ever then. Jon’s stiff posture, the distant terror like a shadow in his eyes, the way he’d flinched with every flash and explosion. Rhaegar nodded, accepting, wondering which reality was worst: being present to see your loved one’s final moments or spending the rest of your life imagining.

“We don’t know each other very well yet, but Ser Barristan trusts you,” Rhaegar said after a moment. “Tyrion, too. And Daenerys is  _ very  _ fond of you. Be good to my sister, okay?”

“I will, I promise.”

His sincerity hurt, too. Earnest, genuine. Jon’s eyes went bright the same Lyanna’s always had. In that moment, Rhaegar trusted him, too.

He led Jon through the rest of the tour, winding their way into the Windwyrm, through the modern gym they’d had installed a decade ago, and then up to the royal suites. Jon thanked him, gave the standard bow of departure and disappeared into his chambers. Ser Arthur’s shadow fell over Rhaegar, as the setting sun blazed hot on their backs.

“Don’t,” Rhaegar told him. “Not now.”

Dinner was a small affair. Rhaegar joined the Queen and the Martells in the private royal dining hall and sat through the pleasantries. All the while he was distracted, despite keeping up with the conversation. With Doran it was always the same. His son and daughter were more interesting, but quieter in the Queen’s presence. 

Thinking of Lyanna, while Elia’s family sat across from him, felt like a betrayal somehow, but she dominated his thoughts all the same. If anyone noticed his guilt, even Rhaella, they gave no hint of it.

He retired to his chambers afterward, showered and changed for sleep, then had his customary tea on the balcony with Ser Arthur to end the night. They were nearly done with Arthur finally spoke.

“He reminds me of her, too.”

“Yes.” 

His voice was brittle as he stood and went to the balustrade. Instead of the white caps of the tide below soothing him, Rhaegar found his eyes drawn to the lit balcony down to the right. Jon and Daenerys were just in sight, swaying to a tune Rhaegar couldn’t hear from above. Sweet, young, thoughtless in their joy and hope. For a while, he watched them dance, Daenerys’s cheek resting against Jon’s shoulder, his cheek against her forehead.

“He’s not her, no matter how much he looks like her,” Ser Arthur said gently. He leaned on the balustrade, too, and watched them. “Lyanna never had a child. Jon was born  _ months _ after she died, in a completely different pro—”

“I know that.”

But reason was never as appealing as a dream. 

From the first time he’d heard that Ned Stark had brought a baby home alongside his sister’s ashes, Rhaegar had been obsessed with discovering the truth. Lost in madness and grief, with Ser Arthur trying to hold him together, to drag him back to reality. So certain that the bastard boy was secretly his son, that the positive pregnancy test Lyanna had tried to hide had been true. She’s given every indication on that last day that it was false. He’d had a bloody tampon thrown at him as proof.

Despite it all, he’d still looked into Jon. His birth, his age, the dates of Lyanna’s official death, if the mother listed on Jon’s birth certificate was real. Wyalla Sand. A common name, impossible to prove one way or another. Ned Stark had been gone long enough, searching for Lyanna, for it all to be true. Still, he’d been desperate, inconsolable about a hundred tragedies life had given him.

_ That Father gave me. _

“It’s best he’s not.” It hurt to speak the truth, but Elia and Lyanna and his children were gone. Nothing was left of the life he’d hoped to build. “Aerys would not have rested until Jon was dead if he’d had even a hint of such a possibility.”

And he’d been lucky enough that his father hadn’t discovered he was looking into the boy. Aerys would have murdered him the same as Rhaenys and Aegon and Elia. The same as he’d tried on Rhaegar a dozen times in the following years. If Jon had been his son, he would never have been safe. And he’d been in too poor a mental state to protect him from a thousand silent assassins.

“He would have,” Arthur agreed.

“Jon is her nephew. That’s the end of it.”

Jon’s face drifted before him once more. Eerie and haunting, nothing like the fantasies he’d once had of a daughter with Lyanna’s features or a tall boy with his pale hair and dark eyes. Neither had ever come to pass. 

Instead, Jon was a maddening tangle of the two. A Stark to the bone, and his nephew by marriage, the very image of Lyanna. In another life, they might have had a son just like him.

_ Not all things are meant to be,  _ Rhaegar reasoned.  _ Happiness most of all. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that, my dears.
> 
> So, NaNoWriMo went awesome. Thanks again for your patience while I wrote a fucking novel in a month, like who does that?? It's another Jonerys fic that I've started posting on here called The Dragons' Song. If you're interested in shapeshifters, most especially of the wolf and dragon variety, give it a shot! I had a lot of fun writing it last month :)
> 
> Expect the next update for Embers.... around Christmas? 
> 
> I believe Jon is up next, but I don't have my outline in front of me, so feel free to shout at me if I'm giving out false information, haha. My 2AM Brain says its Jon, Dany, and Tyrion, but you can't trust 2AM Brain. He's too buddy-buddy with 3AM Brain and his sidekick Late Night Delirium. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for stopping by and waiting for so damn long for this. The Dragons' Song will update Tuesday (as usual) and this one will (hopefully) be not long after!
> 
> I wish I had magic moodboard skills for this, but alas I do not.
> 
> Cheers!


	11. JON IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to the fold for some Dany, and spar, but mostly Dany.
> 
> Enjoy!

Storms shook Dragonstone’s foundations at dawn.

Jon nestled under his bed’s canopy amongst the silken sheets. Beneath his head, the pillows were plump as cumulus clouds. Every inch of the bed was plush and luxurious compared to his own creaky mattress and rough, cheap bedding. 

Thunder echoed across the island, much like it did over the forests and moors around Winterfell. Demanding, significant, yet comforting, too. No sirens or shattering glass bottles or loud, drunk conversations from the alley outside his apartment disturbed him. An eerie peace he was not accustomed to dominated Dragonstone. The island felt a part of him, somehow, solitary and chaotic, peaceful yet dangerous.

Only Dany’s warmth was missing.

She’d been by his side the night prior. Her safe presence had been a balm for his nightmares. Tales of her childhood had chased away the hazy edges of his flashback. He’d grown accustomed to them since his discharge, but every occurence left him more raw than an exposed nerve. With Dany, his old fears weren’t as persistent. Faded, somehow, like a design on an overwashed, favorite shirt.

This morning, however, he woke alone. Dany’s absence made him feel lopsided, as if a great weight had been hooked through one of his ears, dragging him sideways into the floor. He longed to have her warm body curled up beside him, her head tucked under his chin. To drift in and out of sleep with her wispy, calm breaths damp on his skin, and her hair tickling his nose.

_ Keep dreaming, Snow. Whatever’s between us, now isn’t the time to make it so public. _

Tyrion, however, seemed to think Jon’s presence alone achieved that. The man had changed a lot in nine years, and yet not at all when he’d had enough wine. According to him, the press was unavoidable. Public support was the leg Tyrion hoped to stand them on. That pressure alone, in a young relationship that he and Dany had not yet defined, was daunting.

Jon stretched and rolled onto his side, determined to enjoy the comforts while he could. His chosen life offered so few. Royal comfort far exceeded even his upbringing in Winterfell.

Thunder shook the castle again. The rooms and halls seemed to be designed to magnify the sea’s fury. Gusting wind blew his balcony curtains sideways as Jon watched the dull gray clouds swirling in the hazy dawn light. He’d left the doors open for the cool, sea air; to let Dragonstone’s robust scent of brimstone and salt waft into his chamber. But when lightning lit up the sky, a bulky silhouette appeared in the doorway. Jon tensed, expecting Ser Barristan or even Ser Arthur Dayne, the great, hulking man that had shadowed him and the prince all afternoon. Either one might come for a less than friendly visit. A reminder to keep himself in check, but then lightning flickered across the sky once more. Dany’s pale hair glowed white as she hurried through his open doors.

“Bit early for visitors.”

She paused a few feet from his bed wrapped in an enormous, dark blanket that made her look like a tiny, snow-capped mountain.

“The storm woke me and I… well, it’s very cold.”

“This is cold to you?”

“Don’t take that Northman tone with me.”

Her smile said otherwise as thunder rumbled like an eruption cleaving rock in two. Jon made to push his sheets aside, then stopped. As always, he’d stripped himself bare before bed. Just the warmth of her skin would be enough to arouse him, and despite her sneaking into his room at dawn, Jon didn’t want to assume. Dany noticed his hesitancy.

“Are you going to invite me to spend another storm with you or not, Jon Snow?”

“Thought you didn’t want to hear my Northern accent, Princess.”

In response, Dany let her blanket fall away, a big, dark heap around her ankles. She wasn’t naked like him, but it was a very near thing. Lightning lit the balcony again, providing Jon a delicious view of Dany’s body through the sheer nightgown she wore. Gone were the sweatpants and baggy nightshirt. Instead, her gown was pale silk cinched at her waist, but delicate and flowing over her hips and thighs. The chest was loose, too, one loop of silk slipping down her shoulder. Jon could see her pebbled nipples through the thin fabric. His cock stirred.

Jon lifted the sheets in invitation, skin prickling at the rush of cool air. “You’re going to freeze if you just stand there.”

She hurried to him, yanking the sheets over them as she burrowed into his side. Another grumble of thunder shook the room, but so far, the downpour had not begun. Dany pressed her face to his neck, kissed his throat as her arms wound their way around his waist, hot on his chilled skin. Jon held her close, breathed in the soft scent of lilac and vanilla shampoo. His entire body relaxed as she settled against him, chest to chest.

“Do you always sleep naked?”

“Usually.” Jon cleared his throat as her fingertips skimmed down his lower back to his ass. “It’s more comfortable.”

“I like it.” Her fingers traced circles over each cheek, the muscle jumping under her touch. “But for you, not me. Naked is too cold.”

“Even with me to keep you warm?”

Dany smiled against his throat. “What are you suggesting, Jon Snow?”

Jon rolled onto his back, taking Dany with him. She laughed as his hands ran over her thighs, let her silky nightgown bunch in his grip. With anyone else, he might have been too bold, but Dany seemed to relish in his confidence. They could be naturally silly together, and Jon adored her for that.

“I see.” She pecked his lips, her weight resting on his chest. One of her fingers drew lazy circles around the scar over his heart. So far, she’d not asked about the half dozen that littered his torso, but they were too obvious to miss. “Well, it seems you’ve captured a princess. What do you intend to do with me?”

Jon groaned as her thigh pressed against his cock. He tugged her mouth to his, swallowing her squeaky laugh. His hands pushed under her nightgown to the tender flesh of her hips, then her bottom. She arched into him as he caressed her ass, then bit his lip hard.

“Come here.” Jon pulled on her hips, tried to drag her up his body. “I want to taste you.”

Again, Dany seemed surprised by the suggestion, but an eager light came into her eyes. She sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head. Beneath she was naked, pink nipples hard and her chest already flushed as the rain began to patter on the stone balcony.

For a moment, Jon could only stare at her. From her toned belly, soft, rounded hips, breasts that would fit perfectly into his hands as her loose, long hair hung around her shoulders. His cock was stiff where it was pinned under her ass. He almost gave in then, let the lust clouding inside him like smoke change his mind. Imagining their first fuck was only too easy. Rolling her over, pressing her into the bed and fucking her beyond endurance. Jon could almost hear the sounds she would make when she was lost in ecstasy, his cock fucking her deep and hard, his mouth sucking and biting; the kiss-bruises he would leave on her breasts as reminders the next day. Their bodies meeting in a loud smack with every snap of his hips until she was crying out louder than the storm...

“Jon?”

“Grab the headboard.”

She did. Jon scooped her up by her thighs until her cunt was above his face. Already her lips were slick, her clit just visible. He settled her onto his face, moaning at her tart taste on his lips. Dany trembled above him with his first greedy suck, her breath catching as her knees squeezed his head. When Jon swiped his tongue over her folds, Dany gasped, one hand drifting to her nipples. He swore against her wetness as she pinched her left nipple, teasing the tip between her fingers.

Savoring her taste was almost too much. Watching her was near unbearable, and yet he would be content staring up at her forever.

Jon drank her down, his beard chafing the delicate skin of her cunt and inner thighs. He sucked her clit with force, until the nub was stiff between his lips. Every time her cries grew high-pitched and wavering, Jon edged off, lapping up her arousal as it pooled on his lips.

“Gods, don’t stop.” Dany’s hand left her nipples and dug into his scalp. She grinded against his mouth. A shiny sheen of sweat covered her torso as she bit her lip. “Please, yes,  _ yes _ .”

Jon groaned. Bright prickles of pain made his cock ache as her nails scratched at his hair. He teased her clit then, slowing his pace as Dany’s hips rocked against his mouth. She continued to mutter above him as the storm outside gave another deafening boom. His mind was spinning at the sight of her: eyes shut, mouth open, head thrown back as she moved in time with the firm press of his tongue on her clit. He let go of her hip then, reaching behind her until his fingers found her slick opening. One thrust, then two, curling his fingers to press against the ridged spot inside her. Her thighs shook as her moans echoed around the room. Dany clutched the headboard as her orgasm flooded through her body, her cunt clamping around his fingers.

She was still trembling when she dropped to the bed beside him. 

“You okay?”

A huge, blissful smile answered him. Dany continued to pant, her chest heaving in great gulps of air. 

“Okay?” She smiled between breaths. “Your tongue—gods, your whole mouth—is divine.”

“You think so?” Jon rolled so that he was hovering above her. She gazed up at him, neck and cheeks flushed a bright, pleasant pink. “You’re gorgeous when you come.”

“Only when I come?”

“All the time,” he said truthfully, “but especially right now.”

Jon nudged her neck with his nose, kissed over her jaw line, and then slid down her body to her breasts. Twitches of delight made her writhe under him as he gave the right nipple a rough suck. Her legs shifted to welcome his hips between them. Dany whimpered, still half-dazed from her orgasm, as his cock pressed against her. 

Jon shuddered at the sensation and stilled. He wasn’t seconds away from coming like last time, but his head was pounding, a surging demand raging through his body. To claim her, to pin her with his strength, to bury his cock in one sure thrust until the drive of his hips had her wild cries ringing in his ears.

Her fingers threaded through his curls, gentle and pleasant, as Jon suckled first one nipple, then the other.

“Did you bring con—”

Someone knocked behind them. Another rumbled of thunder broke the sudden silence.

Jon glanced over his shoulder, and found a panel of wall to their right was actually a hidden doorway. Ser Barristan’s downturned face was just visible through the six inch part.

“Princess, Lord Tyrion wishes to remind you of your hosting duties for this morning’s breakfast.”

Jon flushed and looked away, his cock still hard against Dany. Suddenly, she was alert, still beautifully flushed, but rather disheartened, too.

“Of course, Ser Barristan. What time is it?”

“A quarter past seven, Princess. Breakfast is at—”

“Eight sharp, yes. Thank you.”

The panel clicked closed, the landscape painting sliding back into place. Dany rubbed his arms, then his chest, frowning.

“I suppose we’ll have to continue this later,” she said.

Jon swallowed, both unnerved by the interruption and annoyed. All the same, he nodded and sat back. Dany wobbled a little as she stood. He held her waist until she had her balance, fingers stroking the scratches he’d left on her hip.

“You’ve wreck me with just that pretty mouth, Jon Snow. I can’t wait to find out what that pretty cock can do to me.”

Dany glanced down at his stiff erection, then pulled her nightgown back on and scooped up her blanket. She set it on the bed beside him, then kissed him. Long and soft and full of promise. 

“Tonight, you’re mine.”

“Even if you have to sneak through Ser Barristan’s secret room?”

“I think he’d prefer that to the balcony.”

Another kiss and Dany was gone, back out to the balcony that led to her own chambers. Jon ran a hand through his rumpled curls as his cock bobbed against his belly and began to soften. He almost apologized to it, then shook himself. No matter the situation, his cock wasn’t more important than Dany’s responsibilities. A royal princess lived a life of devotion to Westeros, not to his lust and throbbing cock. Besides, their first time together shouldn’t be rushed by a schedule.

Jon dressed in the stormy gloom, then grabbed a quick snack from the fruit bowl in his room. Royal breakfasts had been off-limits to him so far, seemed to be by the Queen’s invitation only. Besides his arrival Thursday afternoon, Jon had not spoken to Her Grace once. Prince Rhaegar’s tour had been his only royal interaction besides Dany.

Instead, he ventured to the pristine, state-of-the-art gym. It was a long, high-ceiled room, well-lit and split into two main areas with an adjacent sauna. The first was standard gym fare: treadmills and bikes, strength machines and free weights. Beyond that, however, was an expansive sparring mat, thirty feet by thirty feet, built for swordplay or hand-to-hand combat. Military-grade, if he had to guess by the size and design. A rock wall was behind it, its angles tilted all the way to the ceiling.

According to the prince, the gym was for the royal family and their guests only, but nobody else was present. 

_ At breakfast with Dany, no doubt. _

Bitterness crept into the thought for an instant, but Jon shook that off, too. Even as the princess’s personal guest, he’d expected some degree of isolation from the lords and ladies in attendance. Yesterday, he’d only eaten with Dany because it wasn’t her turn to host. 

Jon hopped on a treadmill to warm-up.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Tyrion Lannister joined him, setting a slow pace on the machine to Jon’s right. 

“Hard to sleep with storms like this.”

Outside, the thunder rumbled like a hundred bowling balls striking pins. He upped his pace to a slow jog. Cardio would help after the excitement and frustration of the morning.

“Sleeping? I was under the impression you were otherwise  _ occupied  _ at dawn.”

He should have brought his headphones, though without his phone they were quite useless. Another thing to get used to: no royal was allowed a personal phone or tablet, nor anyone in such close contact as himself.

Jon increased his pace until Tyrion fell silent. Almost a mile into his run, however, someone else joined them. Ser Arthur stepped onto the treadmill on his left, Prince Rhaegar one over.

“Just cardio today?”

Ser Arthur chose a brisk walk as Jon eased back at the one-mile marker. The knight had not spoken to him yesterday, but Ser Arthur was a living legend, even in the North. Remarkable and strong, one of the greatest warriors Westeros had ever seen. As a boy, learning alongside Robb, Jon had idolized him.

“Whatever makes Tyrion mute.”

“Sparring,” Prince Rhaegar said as he matched Ser Arthur’s pace. “He hates that the most.”

Tyrion stopped his treadmill. “You would, too, if you’d been forced to fight my brother as a boy. I’m still missing a tooth because of him.”

Jon slowed to match Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar’s walk. “Robb broke my ankle once.” 

Tyrion shook his head and hopped off. “It’s the sauna for me then. Swordplay, what nonsense.”

Jon turned back to his new companions as Tyrion left, a little nervous. They’d both been nice so far, but he’d yet to shake the prince’s strange reaction at their first meeting. Even yesterday, Rhaegar had been odd. Staring at him, misty-eyed, almost hovering, then pulling back when Jon noticed. Dany had warned him that her brother was an unusual man, but that he was splendid, too.

“Did your father train you with a sword?”

Jon nodded at Ser Arthur’s question. “The army, too. Robb and I used to chase each other all over Winterfell, pretending we were knights and soldiers. Until he knocked me off a bannister and broke my ankle. Father kept the equipment locked up after that.”

Ser Arthur chuckled, but Rhaegar only frowned. He was like a sooty rain cloud, too heavy to join the storm raging outside. His knight, at least, was friendly and talkative. Violet-eyed like the Targaryens, but dark of hair and built of bulky muscle. Arthur’s skin was darker, too, a warm brown like the Martells.

“Barristan and I had to drag this one to the training yard when he was a boy.” The knight gave Rhaegar’s shoulder a rough clap. “Always had his nose in a book. Looked like a ghost until we got him outside a few hours a day.”

“I’d rather not fight,” Rhaegar said quietly. His voice was deep, much like Jon’s and Arthur’s, but his tone held a melodic delicacy. “Books and music are my strengths.”

“My sister, Sansa, plays a beautiful harp. And Bran took piano lessons for a long time,” Jon offered. “I never had the patience for it.”

“Me either.” Ser Arthur grinned, turned up his pace, then reached over to Rhaegar’s treadmill to force him to a run. “A quick mile, then we’ll see how a Stark man spars.”

Rhaegar nodded in agreement.

Being considered a Stark by the pair was enough to convince Jon to join them. 

They spent the morning on the sparring mat. First, Arthur ran them through basic drills, with sword and shield, then two blades in hand. Jon kept up well enough, as far as he could tell. Through the elementary drills, then the more advanced stances and forms. He’d not fought in a solid year. Tormund was his only combatant option in King’s Landing, but they rarely had time off together.

After the warm-up drills, they danced. Two against one, as Ser Arthur twirled and jabbed and near knocked Jon’s head off. Rhaegar was a graceful shadow at Jon’s side, clearly comfortable with fighting his sworn shield.

“Too slow, my prince.” Ser Arthur was drenched in sweat as he knocked Rhaegar to the ground for a third time. Jon, too, was breathing heavily, his shirt clinging to his back. “Not bad, Snow. Most people can’t keep up with us.”

“Most don’t want to,” Rhaegar muttered from the floor. He used his sword as a crutch to regain his feet, then wiped his brow on his sleeve. “I’m done letting you bruise me for the day. Here.”

He handed Jon his sword, and took a seat on a bench by the wall. Tyrion was already sitting there, watching the spar from a safe distance.

Ser Arthur spun his swords together, then one at a time like a terrifying windmil. “Willing to try me on your own?”

Jon tested the new sword’s balance in his left hand. A bit lighter than he preferred, but right now that might be to his benefit. On a treadmill, Jon had no doubt he could outpace the knight. Dual-wielding swords was another matter. With Rhaegar and him together, they’d barely held Ser Arthur at bay.

“In or out, Snow,” Tyrion called across the mat. 

“In.”

_ Speed. Size. Youth. Patience. _

Jon set the words as a rhythm in his head, timing them to the pounding of his heartbeat. Ser Arthur feinted a step to test Jon’s reflexes, but Jon kept an eye on him as they circled. They were both tired now, muscles aching from near two hours of fighting. But Jon was younger. Perhaps not stronger nor larger, but he spent far more time in action as a firefighter than a sworn shield in his early fifties did. 

He waited.

When Ser Arthur struck, Jon was ready. The knight’s swing glanced off Jon’s left blade as he spun away, and then ducked the second sword. 

_ Agility. Size. Grace. _

Wherever Arthur moved, Jon kept a step ahead, dodging and weaving, using his swords more to redirect Arthur’s, and as pivot points for his own movements. He drove the pace, forced the knight to keep up with his larger greatswords and older body. Even so, Jon could not play defense forever. Arthur learned just as he did, tracking Jon’s motions, accessing his strengths and style. He feinted a thrust to the left, then doubled down on that side. 

Their sparring swords met with a great clank of wood of wood. Jon’s whole arm jolted with the contact.

With a neat twist, his left sword was gone. Jon rolled aside as the second blade came down for his shoulder. He made it to one knee in time to meet the other sword. With both of his arms, Jon could hold the weight. He pressed upward, and Arthur pressed back. And then…

Jon let go.

He ducked to the side, left one hand on his sword as the knight stumbled into the open space. By the time, Arthur stood, Jon was back on his feet and across the mat, waiting.

“You’re good, creative and quick,” Arthur told him, but like his prince, something strange shifted in his gaze. A glance that made Jon’s skin itch like he’d seen a familiar face from across a crowded room. “Come.”

They met in the middle once more, Jon’s speed against Arthur’s strength. He met each strike, even as his arms screamed in protest. Left hip, right shoulder, right thigh, neck high, left ankle. Every clatter of wood on wood, Arthur pushed harder. Sweat stung Jon’s eyes, dripped from his elbows and chin. 

Ser Arthur caught him then, one sword at his chest, the other catching Jon on the calf. He blocked the chest, but stumbled at the smack to his calf, tried to keep his footing, but the knight rushed in, face flushed ruby. With one clean swipe, Jon’s sword was on the ground. The tip of the second blade brushed his neck.

“Yield,” Jon gasped.

They bowed at each other, exhausted. 

Across the room, Tyrion clapped, but he wasn’t the only one. A small audience had formed, mostly familiar faces. Ser Loras Tyrell with his husband, Lord Renly. Dany was seated with her brother and advisor, Ser Barristan standing guard. And—

“You’re out of practice, Sergeant.”

Jon snapped into position, saluting his former commanding officer. 

The old Blackfish gave him a grim smile as he looked Jon over. He was in uniform, a neat, crisp black, decorated in his ranks and medals. The Lord Commander of three provinces’ armies, though when Jon had served, Ser Brynden Tully had been a Lieutenant Commander overseeing their combat zone. Both he and Robb had trained under him, and despite Lady Catelyn’s views, her uncle had grown to respect Jon during his service.

“None of that, boy, you’re not a soldier anymore.”

Jon lowered his arm. “Lord Commander.”

The Blackfish’s craggy face peered at him from under thick bushy eyebrows. He towered over Jon like Ser Arthur.

“Figured I’d find you here,” the Blackfish said. “The royal princess’s guest, hmm?”

Ser Arthur joined them, still winded. “Ser Brynden, welcome.”

“I see you’re putting this one through his paces, Arthur.”

Jon glanced at Ser Arthur, found him still watching Jon with that strange look in his eyes. It was almost like recognition, but Jon didn’t understand how that was so.

“And him through mine,” Ser Arthur said. “Another ten minutes and he might have had me.”

Ser Brynden snorted. “Boy his age ought to be mopping the floor with your old ass.”

The two nodded at Jon and headed for Prince Rhaegar. Dany came over to him, beaming. Tyrion followed at Ser Barristan’s hip, the same interest in his eyes that Jon had seen in Arthur’s. 

“That was quite a show,” Dany told him. He accepted the towel she offered him. “My brother can’t keep up with Ser Arthur half so well anymore.”

Jon wiped his face and neck. “He had my number the whole time.”

“Didn’t look like it from the bench,” Tyrion told him. He glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re expected in the garden soon. All of us.”

Another garden party. The repetitiveness was a bit mind numbing, but the thought of food and another afternoon with Dany on his arm was welcome.

“I’ll need a good shower first.”

Tyrion nodded, then waved for Dany to follow him. “Her Grace expects us first, Princess.”

“Right.” Dany seemed less than pleased at the prospect, like she’d rather join  _ him _ . Just the idea of her naked in a steamy hot shower with him made his heart pound. “Aegon’s Garden, one o’clock sharp.”

Before he could blink, Dany kissed him. Only a soft peck, but right there in the open, amongst half a dozen lords and knights, the display meant so much more.

 

* * *

 

The Queen’s afternoon garden party lasted well into the night. Jon mingled with the Tyrells again, and the Martells took an interest in him, too. He avoided the Tullys and other lords and ladies from the Riverlands. Besides the Blackfish, he only recognized Lord Edmure, his stepmother’s younger brother, but it was best to keep his distance. Nothing good would come from a conversation with him.

By the end of the night, Dany was seated beside him, her arm curled through his as Lady Olenna shocked them with every lewd sexual encounter of her youth—and a few far too recent. All Jon could think of after three glasses of champagne and Olenna’s absurd tales of nudity, was Dany in his bed that morning. Sitting above him, all beautiful, soft skin and needy cries of passion, waiting to have her with him again.

Instead, Jon found himself returning to his chambers alone. The Queen had stolen Dany away, and while Jon waited up for a while, he eventually dozed off sitting upright in bed. When he woke, it was dawn. The sky was a stiff gray, the air clouded with mist, but no rumbles of thunder could be heard.

Sunday.

Already, their long weekend was half over, but Sunday was their day.

While the rest of the guests took a day of rest, and adjourned in the castle’s old sept, Dany and Jon headed beyond the castle’s old curtain wall for a private picnic. 

Dragonstone was a darkly beautiful place. An island outlined by steep, towering cliffs, an impressive, active volcano on one side and the black stone towers of the castle on the other. Jon found it all oddly refreshing. The unkempt grass meadows at the center of the island, magical in the dull morning light as misty fog blanketed the air. Charcoal fields surrounded the base of Dragonmont, complete with partially excavated obsidian caves beneath. They were railed off, more of a tourist trap through a shallow cave to see the sparkling walls on the outskirts of the underground network, but Jon enjoyed the sights all the same. Dany was his guide, his companion for the entire day. Watching snails fight in the fields would be wonderful, as long as he was near her.

Their final stop was the rocky beaches on Dragonstone’s northern coast. Ser Barristan led the way, picnic basket in hand, down a winding stone staircase much like the one Jon had arrived at on Thursday. Jon held her hand the whole way down the cliff-face, tried to not let her azure sweater and dark, fitted jeans distract him. Once they reached the sandy beach beyond the jagged rocks, Jon set up their blanket and basket at the edge of the piles of natural debris. Uprooted trees, snapped branches, and smooth, flat rocks the size of his palm covered the beach.

“I used to come down here as a girl,” Dany told him as they settled on the blanket with their backs resting against a large, pale log. “With Rhaegar usually, to swim.”

A steel blue lagoon stretched before them, the waters calmer for the rock barrier that blocked the worst of the sea’s tide. Along the shore, however, great mounds of rock jutted up from the sand, like knuckles poking up from the earth. One nearby steamed as little shiny bubbles of magma burst on its top. Mist hung over the damp sand and formed a pale, gray-white curtain in the distance. Jon popped a grape into his mouth, then found her hand on the blanket. She smiled at him and shifted closer.

“It’s beautiful here,” Jon said, as they watched the tide slowly coming in. 

Dany considered him like she never had before. As if she was looking for a lie in his words.

“What?”

“Most people can’t stand it here after a while,” she said. “The storms and the isolation, and the overcast gloom. They miss the warmth and the sun.”

Jon grinned. “I’m a Northerner. Warmth and sun are just as rare up there as here. Besides, Dragonstone is more than dreary weather. This is your home, your childhood on this beach and running through Aegon’s Garden. The way your brother tells it, you’ve been known to spend considerable time playing on the Painted Table, too.”

Laughter shook Dany’s shoulders, her serious stare fading. “He told you that? Gods, what else did my dear brother blabber to you? Normally, he knows how to keep a secret.”

“What he dished on his baby sister is  _ our _ secret,” Jon said. “Dragonstone is wonderful, Dany. A great, big island with an active volcano and beaches and caves full of obsidian and a library full of dragon lore? Plenty to love here. Thank you for inviting me.”

She blushed and bit her lip, but her eyes were sparkling like sunlight on the sea. “We’ll come back. Sometime when we aren’t hosting a holiday event. Just you and me.”

Her promise was thrilling, but it gave Jon pause, too. They were still so new to each other, had so much they needed to discuss and figure out, and yet…

_ She wants me with her.  _

“Just us? So, are we… dating then?” Jon grimaced at his lack of eloquence. “Sorry, I’d love that, I would, but we—you and I—haven’t really discussed  _ this _ yet.”

He motioned between them.

“I suppose our relationship—any relationship on this scale—is going to be unusual, compared to what you’re used to,” Dany agreed. “Courting is what most call it for a royal princess, but if you don’t want to do that, then that’s fine.”

Her tone said otherwise, a spark of hurt entering her gaze. Jon raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“I do. I want to be with you and around you. I just think we should talk about all of this, make sure we’re on the same page. Everything’s a lot faster than I’m used to it being. And I expected that, I did, but I’m not entirely sure of the expectations you have, or the  _ crown _ has. If we need the Queen’s approval or not.”

Dany stroked his cheek, then pulled herself away. “My mother’s approval will be necessary for me to marry. Its an old custom, but she’s much more relaxed about it than previous rulers. My family expects me to make a match within the next few years, if possible. My mother especially. I need to find a husband who can live in this world,” she said, jestering back toward the cliff. “Someone to continue my family’s dynasty and have children to carry on the family name some day.”

Children.

Robb and Margaery popped into his head at once. His brother scooping up Margaery’s drinks at his birthday party, eventually having too many and blurting out that they were trying for a baby.

_ “We’re gonna make you an uncle, little brother,” Robb had insisted as Margaery rolled her eyes. “A little Stark to ride around on your shoulders and bat big blue eyes at her Uncle Jon.” _

He’d been in awe of their secret, at the possibility that he might already have a little niece or nephew on the way. A little girl with Robb’s auburn curls, or a tiny boy with Margaery’s toothy smile. He’d dreamt of those future nieces and nephews that night, and of other little children, too, with his dark curls and bright violet eyes. Of Dany at his side as they watched their children run about and play.

If he could still have that.

Shame hit him like a bullet. Jon tried to hold Dany’s gaze and failed. His stomach twisted as that unexpected dream came back to him. At the time, he’d marked it down to too much alcohol combined with Robb’s reveal and Dany’s phone call, but now…

“Daenerys, I… I had a vasectomy when I was eighteen.”

Her entire face fell. Violet eyes dimmed, her eyebrows dipped, even her chin trembled.

“You don’t want kids?”

For once, Jon didn’t have a solid answer. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted as Dany’s face closed off. “Dany, please, just let me explain first.”

Her eyes were critical, cold, but she nodded after a moment. Suddenly, she was a princess before him, royal and composed and entirely unreachable, but her hand was still wrapped around his. Still hopeful and patient.

“It was stupid,” Jon said. He focused on the grape in his other hand. “Impulsive. I’m a bastard, Dany. My entire life has been defined by my birth, and I swore I would  _ never _ bring a child into the world like that. Any kid of mine, whether I married or not, would carry a bastard surname. I didn’t want to put someone else through that. Truth is, I never expected I’d even have the chance at it until I joined the army.”

“The army?”

Her surprise was evident. Jon nodded and prepared himself. Ygritte’s mane of fiery hair flashed before him, copper in the sun and then bursting into a cloud of ash as an IED exploded at her feet.

“My first girlfriend was a fellow soldier. We weren’t supposed to get involved, but we did anyway. The army doesn’t exactly hand out boxes of condoms or birth control to their combat soldiers. I was terrified of getting her pregnant, so I just… I did it before we shipped out. Figured it was for the best since I had nothing to pass on. Never really thought much of it afterward.”

_ Until now _ .

“Is it permanent?”

“Kind of?” Jon laughed despite the seriousness of the conversation. “In the sense that right now, I couldn’t get anyone pregnant no matter how hard we tried, but the procedure’s reversible. And even if that failed, modern science has come a long way. It’s not like they castrated me.”

“I’m aware.” But Dany was melting back to the woman he’d come to know, instead of the icy shell she’d just snapped closed around herself. “So, you would be open to having children some day?”

Again, that strange dream enveloped him, of a tiny boy with his curls and Dany’s eyes. Jon swallowed and slowly nodded.

“I think so. It’s only recently that the thought’s even crossed my mind, honestly. My brother and his wife just started trying for a baby, and being an uncle… gods, that’d be incredible. For Robb and Margaery, of course, but… I can picture it for myself now like I never could before.”

Dany considered him for a long moment, enough time for Jon to squirm under her scrutiny. He was suddenly very glad that Ser Barristan was out of earshot, guarding the winding stairs that provided the beach’s only access point via land. From down here, the castle and Dragonmont were not visible. Anyone watching would need to be in plain sight on the cliffs above.

“Do you want children?”

Asking her seemed silly given the weight of a dynasty’s future on her shoulders, but he was curious all the same. Royalty was expected to have children, whether they wanted them or not; whether they were suitable for parenthood or not.

“It’s expected of me,” Dany said at once. “My brother refuses to remarry, and so I must continue the family legacy.”

Jon huffed out a chuckle that earned him a reproachful look. “I meant outside of that. If you didn’t have the Targaryen legacy to think about, if you were just a modern young woman, just an average citizen living her life for herself, would you want kids of your own if it was up to you?”

Jon rubbed her hand as she fell silent. It was clear she’d never been asked such a question before. He let her think, popped a few more grapes into his mouth, then offered her one. She took it, examining its bright green skin.

“I would,” she said finally. “Growing up by myself was lonely. My father only visited a few times before he died, and I honestly don’t remember anything about him now. Rhaegar was already grown. My mother became Queen. Viserys was older, too, and distant. Difficult. I always wished for a brother or sister my own age, so I wasn’t alone all the time. Or a big family, like yours.”

“Five siblings has its drawbacks.”

Yet, Jon wouldn’t have traded a single one of them for anything else the world could offer. All the fights and the video game parties, the family barbeques on summer afternoons just like this, with Robb and Bran, Rickon and Arya and him, kicking a football around while Sansa huffed on the back deck, and ignored their goading for her to join. Even Lady Catelyn had been kinder on those warm summer evenings, smiling and laughing at her goofy children’s joy.

“I expect six is a lot to manage,” Dany relented. “Especially once I’m queen.”

“Doesn’t your brother still inherit after your mother?”

She nodded, but didn’t look certain. “Nobody’s ever said otherwise, and yet… sometimes, I wonder if he will. Rhaegar’s not the man he was when he was our age. After his wife and kids died… I’ve only ever known him as he is now. Quiet and sad and fretful. But I don’t think he wants to rule, or not for the rest of his life, if he does accept it. Once he thinks I’m ready…”

_ My wife would be Queen. _

For some men, the thought might be thrilling. Being husband to the queen would carry enormous power and weight. He could do as he liked and very few would be able to say or do anything about it. But Jon shivered at the idea. So much responsibility came with leading people, whether it was his former squad or his fire team or even the younger people he’d done time with at Castle Black. Leading wasn’t unfamiliar, but ruling was a different task. He wouldn’t be a king, not even a king consort with his surname, but all the same, Jon would be considered a member of the royal family.

His children would be princes and princesses. Raised and taught by Dany and him, to be the best Westeros had to offer. One day, their oldest would rule.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

“What? Sorry, yeah, I’m… uh, yeah. I’m fine. This is just a lot to get comfortable with, I guess.” He laughed again, nervous energy running through him, his hand trembling in Dany’s. “Sorry, I mean, gods, I figured I’d never have kids at all, you know? That I’d never find anyone who would want that with me, or that would be fine with having their kids have a bastard name.”

“They won’t if we—I mean, my children would carry the Targaryen name, regardless of their father’s surname.”

Another worry eliminated. Jon nodded, a little dizzy. “Right, of course.”

Dany squeezed his hand then stood up, his arm lifting with her. “I know this is a lot to take in, a lot to ask of you so soon, but it’s important that you know where my future is. If that’s not something you want, or you’re not willing to step into this world after this weekend, then that’s okay, Jon. Royal life is not for everyone.” 

_ Is it for you? _

He couldn’t bring himself to ask her that, though, no matter how curious he was. Daenerys would be the end of the Targaryen line if she abandoned the throne. Westeros would scramble to figure out a solution. And yet, he wondered all the same, if she would pick such a life, if given the choice.

Dany’s hand squeezed his before she let go. Jon watched her stroll toward the water’s edge, peeling her boots and socks off and dipping her toes into the tide slipping closer. 

Little waves bubbled in the dark sand around her, splashing at her jeans in gushes of white foam. Beyond her, a fiery orange sun was sinking toward the cliffs. Spots danced in his vision as the sunlight hit his eyes, and for a moment, Jon swore he could see that same little boy from his dreams. Running along the beach, scooping up shells and stamping tiny feet on the sea foam, while Dany followed, keeping him in sight.

Jon stood and joined her for the sunset, wrapping her up in his sweater and arms, holding her close. Dany sunk back against his chest, turned her head toward him.

“Maybe we’ll work out, or maybe not,” Jon told her. “I can’t say what’ll happen beyond right now. Neither of us can, but I can promise I will talk to you about whatever’s happening with me. Or if I have questions or concerns about venturing into this world. I am crazy about you, Dany. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I weren’t.”

Jon kissed her forehead, and then her lips. Quick and simple, yet a wave of tenderness crested over him, made his throat tight and his eyes burn. Falling this fast should have felt like a warning. Instead, the sensation gave him the greatest peace he’d ever known. Peace full of warm contentment and a sense of belonging so long as he had Dany by his side.

“I’m rather fond of you, too, Jon Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up will be Dany :)
> 
> And then Tyrion, Jon, and Ned!
> 
> Look for the next chapter around... January 5th? Whatever's a week and a half to two weeks from now. 
> 
> Happy New Year, lovely readers!


	12. DAENERYS IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better a few days late than not at all!
> 
> And I'm mostly late since I went well over my usual word count per chapter, haha. But I think you'll enjoy the why...

Picnicking on Dany’s favorite beach ended with the first bolt of lightning streaking across the sky. Jon flinched beside her, glancing at the charcoal clouds churning in the distance. Already the misty sea was turning volatile.

“We should get back,” Dany decided. She set the rest of her sandwich in their basket. “Storms happen fast here.”

Ser Barristan seemed to be of the same mind. As the first gust of wind blew in from the sea, he hurried over from his guard position at the base of the stairs.

“Princess, it’s best we return to the castle at once.”

Despite her disappointment at their date being cut-short, Dany helped Jon pack up the remains of their half-eaten meal. Together, they climbed the winding stairs up the cliff face, Ser Barristan taking up the rear with the picnic basket. From the high cliff, choppy, white-caps dominated the sea, growing taller and quicker, as the bleak clouds rolled in.

“Didn’t think to bring an umbrella,” Jon muttered. His face disappeared behind his curls as a strong gust hit them. “You?”

She shook her head. Umbrellas weren’t much use with the violent storms common on Dragonstone. On the flat fields around them, the wind was already wailing and fierce as the storm rushed in. Dany took Jon’s hand as they began their trek back. With their free hands, they each did their best to hold their hair off their faces. The old castle had just come into sight, black stone merging with the backdrop of dark storm clouds, when the first raindrop hit Dany’s nose. Beside her, Jon wiped another drop from his cheek. He looked at her, brow furrowed, as the dirt around them began to freckle with rain.

“At least you didn’t wear one of your fancy party dresses.”

Dany grinned and kissed his damp cheek. “Race you back!”

She bolted across the grassy field as the sky opened up above them. Rain hammered the tall grass and dirt as she ran. Thunder rumbled and the pouring rain filled her ears like an endless static. Laughter bubbled out of her as Jon darted after her, just as drenched as she was. He mouthed something, but the storm was too loud to hear it. Through the wavering sheets of rain, Dany watched the castle loom closer. Her sweater stuck to her skin, heavy and chilled, her boots squelched as she ran, her socks waterlogged.

All at once, the rain disappeared as she skidded through the open gate in the curtain wall. Jon stumbled in beside her, soaked to the bone. His dark curls were slick and stuck to his face, limp and strangely straight. Like her, his sweater was heavy and clingy, brought his muscular chest and abdomen into stark relief. He wiped his hair off his face, laughing and flinging drops of water everywhere. 

“Poor Ser Barristan,” Jon said. He shielded his eyes at the endless rain still splattering the ground. Overhead, it sounded like a stampede on the wall’s battlement. Rivers of mud ran over the ground, and the gutters spewed water like rapids. On either side of the gate’s archway, rain pour down like a waterfall. “He’s going to drown out there on his own.”

Dany looked, too, but her sworn shield was nowhere in sight. She shivered as the wind whipped through the gate, slapping them with rain. Jon wrapped his arm around her, his hand rubbing her shoulder.

“Let’s get out of these wet clothes before we get sick.”

They turned to the stone courtyard inside the castle and the rain pouring down onto the gray stone, overflowing the dragon fountain. Jon kissed her temple and offered his hand.

“Together this time?”

They sprinted across the empty courtyard, hand in hand, running from dry spot to dry spot across the walkways and Aegon's Garden until they reached the guarded bridge into the Windwyrm. Their boots squeaked across the marbled corridors, up the stairs, and right to her door. Dany was smiling so wide her ears hurt. Jon’s grin was more carefree than she’d ever seen on him. Bright, light, and full of joy. He reached down and plucked her wet hair off her damp face. His fingers lingered on her cheek, then skimmed down the column of her neck. 

Dany tugged his face to hers. Their lips crashed together, rough and edged with adrenaline and need. The force of his kiss pushed her back against the door. Then her boot slipped in the puddle they’d left on the floor. Jon’s hands caught her elbows, keeping her upright. She glanced down at her muddy boots and pant legs, the growing puddle as their clothes dripped on the marble. More water dribbled over Jon’s hands as he clutched her soggy sweater. They both giggled, shared a swift, easy kiss.

“I promised you a raincheck, Jon Snow.”

“Did it have to be so literal?”

Dany led him into her chambers, then shut and locked the door.

A fire had been lit in the grate as she preferred, roasting warm and casting flickering light in the dimness from the storm. Jon shut the open balcony doors against the rain as Dany stripped herself of her soaked sweater, then peeled her muddy boots off and tossed them on the floor. He did the same. His sweater hit the floor with a wet smack, his boots quick to follow. Even in the firelight, the scars mapped across his torso were vivid. Surgical in appearance, but a dull, angry red that spoke of hardship. She hadn’t asked yet, but Jon noticed her gaze, seemed ashamed as he folded his arms over his chest to hide the worst of the six.

“Don’t.”

Dany took each of his hands and uncrossed his arms, drew them down to his sides. Then she pressed a soft kiss to the thin, red crescent over his heart, felt the gentle goosebumps and dampness of his chilled skin. Jon shivered. 

“You can tell me when you’re ready,” Dany said. “I can wait for that, but right now…”

Jon glanced at the wall across from the fireplace, the panels that for all appearances should have been shared with his chambers on the other side. “Ser Barristan isn’t going to come bursting in whenever he gets back, is he?”

“No, I’ll knock him out if he does.”

Their next kiss was hungry; a firm press of Jon’s lips to hers, swooping in, then back out to catch her eyes. His hands captured her hips and drew her closer. Dany tangled her hands into his wet hair as Jon kissed her again, open-mouthed and full of warmth. Still, she shivered from the rainwater slick on her skin, her soaked pants stuck to her thighs.

“Come here, love.” 

Instead of being backed up toward her bed, Jon turned her toward the fire and the sofa before it, the warmest place in her chambers. He took the cushions and pillows and arranged them on the rug before the hearth, then collected her blankets from the bed. When his plush nest was complete, he returned to her, taking her face in his hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks as he claimed her mouth once more.

Dany clung to him as they kissed, pressed herself to his body to feel the deep, thrumming warmth of him. His hands traced down her neck and over the tops of her breasts. Her bra came free with a quick tug. She wiggled her shoulders to get it the rest of the way off, then gasped as Jon’s mouth darted down to suck her left nipple.  Every part of her throbbed at the sensation, wetness gathering between her thighs. His tongue lavished her rosy peak, curling against her nipple, then nipping it when it hardened further. Breathes stuttered out of her as Jon’s hands dipped down the back of her pants to squeeze her ass.

“Gods,” Jon murmured as he pulled off her left nipple with a slick pop. “I’m going to lose my damn mind if I don’t have you at least twice tonight.”

“Only twice?” She bit her lip to stop herself from panting. Her chest fluttered as Jon’s mouth turned to her right nipple. At his sharp bite, however, Dany moaned. “And here I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you from dusk to dawn.”

Jon groaned around her nipple. “Fuck, however many times you want. Get out of these pants before I ruin them further.”

Dany pulled back reluctantly, unzipping her pants and working them down her hips. They clung to her damp skin stubbornly, but finally came free along with her panties and socks. Then she was bare before him, her skin shining from the rain. Jon scooped her up and carried her to the cozy nest he’d created before the fire. Heat washed over Dany at once as the glowing fire crackled beside them. He moved to lay down with her, but Dany pressed her hands to his chest.

“Oh no, Jon Snow. This is a naked-only zone.” She reached down and undid his jeans. “Besides, I don’t want you catching a chill.”

He laughed, but stood up. Dany leaned up on her elbows and watched him undress, reaching into his boxer-briefs to pull his cock free as he fought against the wet fabric. With a few awkward yanks, his hard cock bouncing before her, Jon kicked his legs free. She couldn’t help but laugh at him, giddy and eager and adorably hers.

“Keep laughing and I’ll go back to my room,” Jon said. His cheeks turned pink and he hesitated to join her. “You have condoms?”

“In the bedside drawer.” She nodded toward the little cabinet before adding, “But we don’t have to use them, unless you think we should.”

He took a step toward the cabinet, then looked back at her. “I haven’t been tested in a while, but you’re also the only person I’ve been with in a long time.”

“I’ve always been safe,” Dany told him. “Nothing on tests for me either.”

Jon nodded and joined her again amongst the pillows and blankets. As soon as he was within her reach, Dany took his cock in hand, stroked the firm, hot flesh as he settled above her. He shut his eyes and groaned, hips rocking with her movements. 

“Fuck, Dany.”

She could see his patience and control waning, even then, desperate for contact and friction. After yesterday morning, Dany couldn’t blame him. Every muscle in his chest and arms was stiff with restraint—with the need to please her first like he already had twice before. A delightful contrast to her two previous lovers, but right then, Dany rejected the idea of it. She wanted him against her, thick cock buried in her heat, rough and forceful and driving her to the brink.

“Don’t be a gentleman tonight,” Dany told him, giving his ass an appreciative squeeze that made his hips buck. “Take me, Jon.”

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, his dark with desire, ensuring her consent as her fingers gave his cock a hard squeeze. Under her palm, the swollen flesh gave very little. 

His mouth returned to hers, a fierce edge to his kisses as his teeth bit her bottom lip. Dany welcomed his weight, his eager hands nudging her legs wide, hips settling in the cradle of her thighs. Like before, he thrust his cock against her slickness, the hard, hot flesh rubbing her clit, sending jumpy sparks of pleasure up her spine. They settled like a knot in her belly as his lips trailed down her neck, over her collarbone, and back to her breasts. He bit the top of each, gave one nipple a hard teeth-laced tug. His hands rubbed over her skin, removing the last of the chill as he shifted his hips until his cock nudged at her opening. Jon gave a great shudder as the head of his cock pressed against her, wet and ready, aching for his first thrust that would split her open.

Steady pressure gave way with one sure thrust. Dany cried out as he buried himself to the root, back arched, his moan so deep and loud, she felt it vibrate through her entire body. She shut her eyes against the sensation, at the delicious, thick stretch, the way her body enveloped him in tightness. Her legs fell wide as he eased back, met her eyes, then snapped his hips forward again.

“Gods.” Jon trembled against her, resting on his forearms. He looked ready to lose his mind, seemed to be knotting his control up for her benefit. “You feel incredible.”

“Fuck me,” Dany told him. “Don’t be gentle.”

Dany canted her hips to meet him, took his ass cheeks in hand and dug her nails in. He fucked hard after that. A needy edge to his jolting thrusts, their panting breaths mingling in the growing warmth by the fire. Somehow, Dany had expected gentle fondness from Jon, despite her request. From the kind, caring man she’d gotten to know in public; the lover that had so far put her pleasure above his own. Yet now, he drove into her with a mindless abandon, gasping and growling against her neck, biting her skin hard enough to bruise, then breathing into her as they kissed. Jon captured her left leg, pressed her thigh flat against his chest as he sat up, dragging her with him. Her ass lifted with his movements, his cock buried deep, stiff and wonderful against her pubic bone as he stilled.

Jon shut his eyes, chest heaving. His fingers rubbed her clit in slow, firm circles as he rested her calf on his shoulder, kissed the inside of her knee.

“Your cock feels so good,” Dany told him. She shifted her hips for friction, palms flat on the blankets and cushions for leverage, lifting her lower half to roll herself against him. Her skin was flushed and warm, her mind cloudy with need. Staying still when she was tottering on the edge of her orgasm wasn’t an option. “Fuck me until I come, Jon, please.”

Jon groaned as she moved, staring down at where their bodies joined. Dany glanced down her body, too, the sight of his cock disappearing into her sent a shockwave of arousal through her. Every shift dragged his cock from her, rolling him back into her tight depths as Dany found a rhythm. She panted with the effort of holding herself up, dizzy and tingling in anticipation, rocking her hips to fuck herself on his cock. Slick, wet slaps echoed in her ears as Jon drove into her again, hard and deep, helping her lift her ass until she was at the most exquisite angle. He thrust up into her, palm circling over her clit, as her high whine filled the room.

“Come for me,” Jon demanded, his free hand finding hers. 

Their fingers laced together, and when Dany looked up and found his dark eyes on her, she shattered. She jerked against him, hips spasming in his grasp as she slammed herself down on him. Her scream made her body shake, her cunt clenching around him. Heat spread throughout her in a sharp, blistering wave. Her throat stiff, chest hot, clawing at the cushions as her orgasm washed over her, coiling her muscles taut. Jon slammed into her, bending over her, back curled as he set a relentless, punishing rhythm. Dany clutched his scalp as he pressed his forehead against her breastbone. With a great howl, Jon tumbled with her into ecstasy, his cock pulsing inside her, flooding her cunt with his cum. 

Wrecked and sated, Dany settled into the warm cocoon of blankets with Jon’s sweaty body pressing her down. They calmed slowly, their breathing evening out, then Jon easing his slick, softening cock from her. A gush of wetness followed, unfamiliar to her, but laced with a prickle of delight as his cum leaked from her. She’d never trusted any man to be bare inside her before.

Jon kissed her sweaty neck, then carefully rolled off her and away from the fire. He curled up on his side next to her, wrapped a loose arm around her waist, and nuzzled her ear.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Jon kissed the shell of her ear, then the soft skin beneath.

Dany hummed in answer, blinking sleepily at him. When she rolled her head to look at him, his eyes were shining with something she could scarcely describe. Pure and true and simple, yet a rare beauty that made her chest swell with joy and contentment—with the certainty that quiet moments like this with Jon would be the most solid foundation of her life. 

“What?” Her raspy voice surprised her, caught in her throat.

“I’m definitely falling in love with you.”

He kissed her nose, stroked her cheek with a curled finger. Patient and genuine, not expecting anything in return. Nobody had ever given her that either. His gray eyes drifted shut, exhaustion beginning to kick in. Dany wiggled deeper into his embrace, and kissed his bearded cheek.

“Jon? I’m falling in love with you, too.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled as he kissed her temple.

 

* * *

 

Dany woke to the fire’s warm glow toasting her back. She yawned and stretched, rolled onto her belly. Jon was hunched naked by the grate, stoking the sparking embers as he added a new log to the fire. Muscles stood out along his calves and thighs, rigid and sculpted. Once the fire was roaring up and crackling merrily, Jon set the poker aside and slide the hearth screen back into place. Dany watched the light flicker in the metalwork, blazing in the dragon’s eyes and spines. He started when he turned and found her watching him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Jon smiled, trailed his fingers down her bare back. She shivered at the contact, hugging one of the pillows under her chest, resting her cheek on it.

“You’re a nice sight to wake to, all lean and naked and pretty.”

He didn’t say anything, just continued to smile, his fingers skimmed down her spine, a light whisper of touch until they followed the curve of her ass. Beside her, Jon stretched out, long-legged, and at ease, his heavy cock soft, but his eyes promising more, if she was ready for it.

“I’m not laying here naked for only your eyes to enjoy, Jon.” 

Dany arched her ass back into the cup of his palm, groaned softly as he squeezed the round flesh, massaging until she moaned. Her thighs were damp from earlier still, her lips wet with their combined fluids. Already, his cock was stirring at her suggestions. He wasted no time, hopped onto his knees, and settled behind her. As his knees pressed into the blankets on either side of her thighs, trapping them in place, Jon wound all her hair into a damp twirl and slid it over her shoulder.

His lips were hot as he pressed a kiss to the knot of bone at the base of her neck. A slick kiss trail followed, sucking down her back, his teeth scraping over the swell of her ass, biting and teasing until she squirmed and tried to wriggle free. With one firm hand, Jon held her down.

“Nope, you’re mine, Daenerys. And,  _ gods _ .”

He’d reached the bottom of her ass. She felt him suck in a deep breath, then the hot rush of it releasing against her wet cunt. His hands cupped each of her cheeks and spread them apart. Then he blew on her cunt, on the sticky wetness of his cum on her lips and her own still slippery on her swollen flesh. Dany jumped at the sensation, a tingle of heat running up her back.

“See something you like?”

_ “Yes. _ ”

Dany propped herself up on her elbows, looked back at Jon over her shoulder. His mouth parted as he stared at her dripping cunt. He was mesmerized by it. A welt of embarrassment stirred in her belly at his close inspection.

“Jon?” 

He started, cleared his throat, glancing up at her. When their eyes met, Jon turned red. She understood then.

“You like seeing the mess you made of me? Your cum in my pussy, marking me as yours?” Dany wiggled her ass still in his grasp, then laughed as he ducked his head, caught. “Because I quite like how your cum feels inside me.”

“Yeah?”

Dany hummed as she arched back and pushed her ass against his cock. Already he was stiff, a solid, thick erection, a bead of fluid at the tip. He needed little encouragement after that. Jon kneeled behind her, took his cock in hand and pushed into her. This time, Jon sunk into her inch by inch, stretching her sore cunt, making her feel every vein and ridge, and the lovely blunt pressure of his cock meeting her womb. Her fingers curled into the blankets, bunching them in her fists as the pressure cramped in her belly.

He held himself deep until Dany shook and gave a shaky gasp. She whimpered as he withdrew, holding her open with only the fat head of his cock.

“Don’t tease me.”

“Me? You’re the one laying here with the pretty, wet cunt.”

One of his hands grabbed her ass cheek, dragged her back along his cock a few inches, then forward again. His thumb dipped between her cheeks, rubbed against the puckered skin of her ass. Dany jerked in his grasp. Her belly throbbed at the slick press of his thumb, and she forced her hips backward. With her forearms flat, Dany rocked herself on his cock, slow at first, but building as Jon’s shallow thrusts joined her.

She shut her eyes, working herself to the deep drag of his cock, the delicate fluttering in her thighs. A scratchy whine left her, drove her to fuck herself back harder. Her breasts brushed over the pillow, her nipples peaking and catching, delighting in the friction sparking all over her body. Then Jon’s hand twisted into her hair, using it as a handhold. He gave a heaving grunt as their movements joined with a hard jolt.

“Gods, I can’t wait to have you ride me.”

Another whimper left her, joined the wet sounds of his cock fucking into her. She felt all of him, the bulbous curl of his head, jabbing her womb and stroking the knot of pleasure in her belly. Every pulse of his swollen cock made her cunt tighter, her lips growing fat as he swore, clenching and squeezing his length until they were rutting fiercely. Her mouth fell open, shoving her entire body backward, shaking and shivering, her thighs trembling as the rush inside her built. Behind her, Jon groaned, his voice hoarse, fingernails digging into her ass, driving her on.

Dany panted as heat swallowed her, flushing down her from head to toe, jerking her hips until it splintered. She thrashed amongst the pillows, crying out as her cunt tightened, seemed to suck his cock as deep as he could push himself. When Jon came, his cum gushed hot against her womb, locked deep as he called out with her.

He stayed inside her for a long time, as every pulse and twitch of her orgasm wracked her body, gripping his cock and squeezing him. If he was oversensitive, Jon didn’t show it. His kisses trailed back up her spine, over her shoulder, then up to her lips.

“I’m never going to get enough of you.” 

Jon offered his parted lips to her, cock still locked deep in her cunt, softening now, but too perfect to lose. They kissed slowly, sensual open-mouthed presses, tongues tentative and exploring, brushing lips, sucking and biting. When he did ease himself from her, Dany winced at the emptiness.

“You okay? Was I too—”

“You were perfect.” 

Jon lay down facing her, brought her into his arms. He stroked her hair, damp with sweat and from the rain still, too. She’d never been so at peace, wrapped in Jon’s embrace, her cheek against his chest, tucked into his steady warmth while the fire burned behind her. One of the blankets swooped down over her. Jon tucked it in around her, and a bit around his hips, too. Then he shifted until his feet were poking out of the bottom end.

“You’ll get sick,” Dany mumbled, yawning against his neck. “Cold feet are the worst.”

His sleepy hum answered. “Hate having hot feet. I’m not a combination dragon-furnace like you.”

She snorted, then burst out laughing, felt the rumble of Jon’s deep chuckles joining her. For a long time, they couldn’t stop. Every brief silence only made the moment funnier, until Dany’s chest ached and her eyes burned with tears. Normal was not a common occurrence in her life, not by the rest of the world’s understanding. Yet, giggling and cuddling with Jon, in the pleasant aftermath of their lovemaking, gave her a strange, kindling of hope. 

With Jon, she was Dany. Not Princess Daenerys in line for the crown. Not Daenerys, a delinquent public relations nightmare, nor little Dany, a wayward daughter or troublesome sister. She was herself entirely, learning as she went, but understanding, too, that self-discovery came in parts. Having someone who loved her as she was, instead of for who she was born or expected to be, meant everything.

 

* * *

 

“Princess? Um, Daenerys?”

Comforting warmth surrounded her, Jon’s strong arm curled around her back, her cheek resting on his other bicep, fingers tangled in her hair. Dany’s eyes were crusted with sleep. She struggled to open them, too content to care about moving or returning to her duties.

Missandei’s soft voice called out again. “Dany? Please, Princess, the tourney starts soon, and you’re expected.”

Dany found Missandei standing behind the couch, head bowed, but her gaze peeked up through her eyelashes. A blush was high on her advisor’s cheeks.

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten, Princess. I’ve brought breakfast as well. Lord Tyrion… he thought it better if I woke you both.”

_ More like didn’t want Jon to punch him in the throat. _

Tyrion was rarely subtle when it came to the sexual aspects of her life. Nothing in her personal life was truly private. Not when she had a sworn shield, several advisors, and a dynasty’s future to manage. 

Missandei, however, was far more gentle. Cautious and delicate, but capable of secrecy, too. Not that her relationship with Jon was any such thing at this point. The specifics, certainly, but Tyrion had already discussed the likelihood of the papers and news sites raving about Jon’s presence this weekend. Whatever the outcome—whether Jon could handle the pressure or not—the news would suffocate the airwaves with little else afterward.

“How are we entering?”

“A royal procession, from the eastern gate.” Missandei hesitated before continuing, “Will Jon accompany you or join the lords and ladies instead?”

“Accompany me, I believe.” She tucked her face into his shoulder and breathed in his scent. “We’ll be ready by eleven.”

The clink of a tray being set on her solar table followed, then the click of the door. Dany snuggled into Jon’s warmth, dozing in and out to the steady, slow sound of his breathing. An alarm went off not long after. 

Dany stretched and sat up, taking the blanket with her. Jon had kicked most of it off in the night, but he shivered and drew his knees up toward his chest at the chill. She made her way across the room, and found an alarm clock next to the covered tray Missandei had left. Under the silver cover, their breakfast was still steaming. Eggs sunny-side up, grilled tomatoes, links of sausage, and toast with a ceramic dish of strawberry jam. All of her favorites.

“Jon, breakfast.”

Nothing.

“Jon?”

A low snore greeted her. Dany rolled her eyes and carried the tray over to him, set it carefully on the hearth’s dark stones. She took a sip of fresh orange juice, then waved a link of sausage under Jon’s nose. It took a few seconds for his nostrils to twitch, then narrow as he inhaled. He squinted at her and yawned.

“Smells good.” 

When Jon tried to bite the sausage from her hand, Dany yanked it away.

“You get food when you sit up and join me.”

He grumbled as he did so, but downed half his glass in two big gulps. They ate as sparkles of sunlight glinted off the glass doors, tossing rainbows around the room. Food helped wake Jon up. When she asked if he would accompany her as part of the royal procession for today’s tourney, Jon agreed.

“Of course, I’ve never attended a tourney before. And it’s fine with the Queen?”

For once, Dany couldn’t be bothered to care if her mother would approve. Jon would be by her side, regardless of everyone else’s opinions. 

After a quick breakfast, Jon gathered up his damp clothes and returned to his room across the balcony. Dany showered and dressed, wound her hair into a quick braid, then checked herself in the bathroom mirror. A pleasing glow lit her face, brightening her eyes and adding a sweet pinkness to her cheeks. She powdered the teeth marks and hickey on her throat, but hiding her new relationship was impossible.

_ I look well fucked. _

Dany beamed at her own reflection, bashful, then hurried out to the corridor to join Ser Barristan and await Jon. Instead, she found  her brother pacing, Ser Arthur at his heel. Ser Barristan appeared at once, his secret panel sliding seamlessly back into the wall.

“Ah, Dany, you look… well rested.” Rhaegar eyed her for a long moment as their sworn knights took a respectful step back. “Divine as always.”

“You look well, too.” 

But Rhaegar didn’t when she took in the strain on his face and the dark circles under his eyes that no make up could hide, not that he hadn’t tried. He was fitted in a sleek gray suit today, an ornate circlet of onyx and rubies angled on his pale hair. It very closely matched her own tiara for the day: a silver band woven of thin waves of sparkling diamonds, prominently featuring the Targaryen colors in thumbnail-sized stones of obsidian and garnet. Mother would contrast their regalia with the Kingdoms’ Crown, a heavy gold band fashioned of nine gemstones evenly spaced around its steepled edges. One gem for each of the seven provinces, an eighth for the Iron Islands, and the ninth position on the front featuring a ruby flame for the ruling dynasty. A ceremonial crown of their ancestors, as old as unified Westeros itself, but today was a reminder of tradition and power.

“Jon will be joining us for the afternoon,” she added, before anyone could ask or try to direct her lover— _ her boyfriend _ —elsewhere.

“Of course.” Rhaegar offered her a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Is he—”

Jon’s door opened. He was resplendent in a light suit, a soft tan with a white shirt and a lilac tie that matched her flowing summer dress. Dany adjusted her tiara as he smiled at her. Like her reflection, Jon looked quite well fucked, too.

“You look radiant,” Jon told her. He kissed her cheek, and threaded their fingers together. Then he noticed her brother and their guards. “Prince Rhaegar, Happy Unification Day. And Ser—”

Dany squeezed his hand to stop him. Jon cut himself off, cleared his throat, and instead offered the two knights an awkward nod. Acknowledging Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur’s presence was an easy mistake to make. At least, in the company of only her and her brother, the over-friendliness was simple to brush aside. While Jon tended toward quietness, he’d gotten to know both of their sworn shields quite well. His familiarity was important with each, but advertising it in a public space would draw looks unless she or Rhaegar brought them into the conversation first.

“Come, we don’t want to be late.” Rhaegar tried to smile again. “Mother will have our heads if we aren’t punctual.”

They met Rhaella inside the guardhouse tucked in the eastern courtyard, the same one they’d run through the evening before. Dany tried to keep her smile easy and respectfully polite, but she struggled with it. Every inch of her bloomed with happiness, from the softness of her dress rubbing the bite marks on her skin to the tenderness between her thighs. Even now, she could still recall the fullness of Jon’s cock inside her. Their secret that others could only guess at, but never have as their own.

Her mother eyed Jon critically, but said nothing of his presence. He’d already arranged himself properly at her side, offering a sturdy arm to escort her to the tourney field set up beyond the castle wall. Jon gave nobody any reason to complain nor criticize his posture and etiquette. His pace was precise, his back straight, arm steady as Dany rested her palm on the soft back of his hand. Despite his name and the dozens of lords and ladies watching them pass, Jon’s eyes never strayed from Rhaella. He knew how to follow, had every nuance down to an easy grace.

Once Rhaella sat, the rest of the crowd took their seats, Rhaegar and Dany included, but Jon waited until she was seated—a proper gentlemen with their secret sparkling in his gray eyes.

“What events are planned?” he asked once the announcer took over the microphone. “A joust, I suppose? Tyrion’s itinerary wasn’t specific.”

“A melee, too. Then lunch in the garden followed by archery and a polo game by the national team before the fireworks.”

“Assuming the weather holds up. We certainly don’t need a repeat of yesterday.” Jon gave her a wink, or what was meant as a wink. Try as he might, the sultry attempt ended as a blink instead.

She couldn’t stop herself from giggling. At Rhaegar’s sideways look, Dany flushed and turned back to the events. The morning passed quickly in the royal box. Every safety measure possible had been taken. The royal jousters gave more of a display of jousting as an art form than one of warfare. Those days were long past now. In the melee, however, the selected knights were more brutal, slicing and hitting until Ser Loras Tyrell was the last man on his feet.

_ Jon could have beaten him. _

After seeing his skills in the royal gym, Dany had no doubts that Jon might someday participate and win. That he might offer her the winner’s bouquet or crown, like a fairytale knight to a beautiful lady. He held her hand the entire morning, thumbing rubbing over her knuckles. 

By lunch, she was starving. The congregation followed the royal party to Aegon’s Garden for a more formal feast. Jon ate at her left-hand side, her mother to her right, Rhaegar on the Queen’s other side. It was then that Dany began to notice the looks Jon was drawing. Not because he was making a scene; in fact, his manners and mannerisms were as perfect as they’d been for this first meal together at her hotel in the Neck. 

_ For his name, for his special place at my side. _

Dany scowled as she took a sip of wine. On Jon’s left, Tyrion babbled on about the morning’s events, but Dany saw her advisor’s eyes dart to the surrounding tables, too. 

Not everyone was offering strange looks. The Tyrells notably seemed unfazed at Jon’s placement. More than once Dany sworn Lady Olenna winked at her, but others were not as accepting. The Martells looked over a few times, more curious than disdainful. The lords and ladies from the Stormlands were less pleasant, whispering amongst themselves, but they, at least, didn’t appear resentful. At the table of Riverland aristocrats, however, Lord Tully appeared downright hostile. His normally ruddy face was ruby, his silverware gripped tight as the rest of his province’s attendees gazed openly at Jon, too.

Jon’s replies to Tyrion’s conversation grew shorter, his jaw tight. Dany rubbed his thigh under the table, but avoiding Lord Tully proved impossible. After the formal feast ended, the gathering adjourned to the lower garden, amongst the winter and violet roses in the shade of the towering oaks and pale birch trees. Dany kept a loose hold on Jon’s left arm and an eye out for the burly Lord Tully’s auburn hair. He made for them at once, a trail of sycophants at his heels, seemed to have no concerns about interrupting Tyrion’s conversation that was all but one-sided at this point.

“Well, Jon Snow as a royal guest for the Dragonstone Unification Day celebration.” Lord Tully eyed Jon with a dislike so intense it shocked Dany. “A bit above your normal crowd, isn’t it, Snow? I don’t see your usual gang of wildlings in attendance.”

The handful of men around Lord Tully chuckled appreciatively, sipping their goblets of wine. Rage boiled up Dany’s gut and into her throat, but Jon’s hand gave hers a reassuring squeeze. Tyrion watched the exchange with a calculated interest.

“Those born beyond the Wall prefer to be called Free Folk, Lord Edmure,” Jon said. His words were polite, but his tone was colder than Dany had ever heard it. “Slurs have no place in polite conversation.”

_ Slurs? _

Dany glanced at Jon, but let him take the lead. She’d meant to ask him more about the children at Lord Reed’s orphanage this weekend, but so far she’d been quite distraction by having him at her side. Finding out the term she’d been using had such a negative connotation was unsettling. Nobody had ever mentioned or taught her that before.

A few of the lords shifted uncomfortably. Dany recognized most of them by their faces: Lord Blackwood from Raventree, Lord Mallister of Seagard, Lord Whent who led the lands around the Gods Eye, and had a vested interest in the finances of Harrenhal. Lord Edmure gave Jon a piercing look, and even then he didn’t acknowledge her, a rude snub that would not stand.

“It hardly matters what those savages call themselves.”

Jon’s voice turned icy. “They were born on the wrong side of the Wall, my lord. That does not make them savages.” 

Lord Edmure scoffed dismissively. “They wouldn’t understand civility if it—”

“I believe, nephew, that its your own decorum in question.” Lord Commander Tully appeared in a sweep of his black cape and decorated uniform. He planted himself at Jon’s side, and offered a simple bow to Dany. “Princess.” Then he turned his sharp gaze onto his nephew. “It is customary to greet Princess Daenerys graciously when you find yourself in her presence, not to verbally attack her guest on your sister’s behalf.”

Lord Edmure flushed. His group of lords cast their eyes to their shoes.

“I meant no discourtesy—”

“No, you only demonstrated how well versed you are in it instead.” The Blackfish sniffed in disgust. “House Tully has seen far better days than you, Edmure. Catelyn is quite capable of attending to her own honor, and moreso, these so called  _ savages _ you are belittling are the same men and women on the frontlines of our military. Sergeant Snow among them, and an honored war hero. They deserve your gratitude and respect, today of all days.”

“Uncle, I—”

“Go, boy, before I scold you into the dirt.”

She’d never seen a man’s face so scarlet. Lord Edmure offered her an embarrassed bow and hurried away, his Riverlands lords at his heels. Once they were gone, Tyrion chuckled and finished his wine.

“Well, Snow, the royal life is certain to be more interesting with you joining us.”

Jon grit his teeth, but stayed silent.

“Ignore them,” Dany told him. “What they say doesn’t—”

“I know that.” Even then, Jon’s tone was brittle. He sighed, shook his head, and met her eyes. “Sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with such bigotry on my behalf.”

“Neither should you.”

The Blackfish hummed in acknowledgment, then nodded at each of them. “If you’ll pardon me, Princess, I must offer my congratulations to Ser Loras for his stellar performance this morning.”

In the distance, the bell tower over the old sept tolled out the hour and the start of the second half of the tourney. Dany and Jon rejoined the royal party, and the tournament resumed back in the little pavilion. Muteness dominated the afternoon’s archery contest and polo scrimmage as the sun began its descent behind Dragonstone’s dragon towers, its rays peeking through in great beams of ruby and orange. Both of them had fallen into a brooding quiet that Dany wasn’t sure how to reroute. 

With dusk, the gathering returned once more to Aegon’s Garden and the scent of roses and bark. Desserts were born through the crowd by waiters, along with flutes of champagne as the Queen made the traditional Unification Day toast to a background of fireworks bursting against the velvet night.

“You okay?”

Jon nodded, even as he jolted slightly with the crackling fireworks cascading across the sky. Dany kissed his cheek, then laughed as he shifted behind her and circled his arms around her waist. Nothing inappropriate, but quite intimate in a public setting. At all once, the afternoon melted away, left behind a wonderful, happy ache in her chest as Jon held her. The rest of the assembly took no notice, their attention on the fireworks brightening the dark garden. 

Flashes sparkled on the sea, glittered in Dany’s eyes as shapes took form overhead. Great dragons in reds and greens and golds for their ancestors, then the seven great houses King Aegon I and his sisterwives had unified in their sigil forms: Dorne’s red sun, the Baratheon’s proud yellow stag, a blue fish for the Riverlands, Highgarden’s golden rose, then the Vale’s blue falcon, the golden lion of Lannister, and finally, a great white wolf that spread across the sky, fading slowly as its boom echoed across the island. Another dragon grew in its place, ruby and small, followed by a dozen more in a kaleidoscope of colors that chased each other across the smoky sky. 

All the while, Dany leaned back in Jon’s arms, relaxed against the firm muscle of his chest with his chin tucked over her shoulder. They watched the display to its end, went through the formalities of the ending ceremony, then retired to the Windwyrm with Tyrion and Missandei for evening tea before bed. 

Like the day before, Dany made no secret of Jon entering her chambers. He followed her inside and locked the door, stripped her bare as she returned the favor. 

Half the night rushed past in a flurry of kissing and fucking and quiet conversation as they sprawled out on her great, canopied bed in pale shafts of moonlight. She could not be sated for long. Even when her cunt was too tender for more, Dany still found new ways to explore. Her lips mapped Jon’s body. Every dip and curve of muscle, the dusky hair on his thighs, the rough lines of scars and faded burns. Each one had a story Jon’s hushed voice offered as Dany memorized them with her fingers and lips. She learned all she could, from the stuttered puffs of breath when she took him into her throat, to the way Jon’s left leg restlessly twitched when his pleasure engulfed him. And she found, too, that Jon was just as eager to discover every crevice and strength of her body. His fingertips traced patterns on her skin, his lips and teeth found new hidden places to mark until they’d both branded each other in a dozen soft spots.

By morning, Dany was exhausted, but full of an undeniable peace that sat low and warm in her belly. She woke to attend to their guests’ departures, and offer the expected pleasantries and smiles. Lady Olenna gave her a very obvious wink, and when the older woman leaned in to peck her cheek, she was ribald as ever.

“He must use his cock well to make you glow like that. An attentive lover is a treasure you best keep.”

Others were more brittle and short. Lord Edmure offered his apologies for the previous day, but his words did not hold true to his eyes. Rhaegar noticed the exchange, but Dany was quick to return to her chambers once the last of their guests had been escorted from the island. Tyrion was waiting at her door, full of reminders and an afternoon schedule Dany would rather forget.

“Princess, I’ve just informed Jon of his departure time,” Tyrion said, nodding toward Jon’s door, but his mismatched eyes said he knew all too well how little use Jon’s room had been getting. “Four o’clock sharp on the private dock.”

She shut herself away in her rooms, found Jon still sleeping in the mid-morning sunlight. Dany slid out of her dress, bra, and panties, and climbed back under the blankets with Jon. He roused a little, mumbling and twisting into her warmth, curled his arms loose around her. They dozed the rest of the morning away, took a long, hot shower together once they woke, then dressed for their goodbyes. 

Neither her mother nor Rhaegar were in attendance this time. She escorted Jon down the long, winding staircase then watched Ser Barristan carry Jon’s bag onto the boat. All at once, her throat constricted. Jon looked far from ready to leave as he eyed the royal guards awaiting him on the small boat.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Dany told him, though she hadn’t a clue when “soon” might be. 

September had arrived that dawn and with it came an autumn of traveling and responsibilities. The last of the royal visits were in the coming weeks. She would tour the robust harvests in the Reach and see how the Westerlands had been faring in the last year. Events and parties and a return to the royal spotlight. No matter how well the weekend had gone, her mother would never allow Jon to accompany them so early in their relationship. If she even approved of Jon at all.

“Miss you already,” Jon said. 

He kissed her hard, seemed to be trying to fill the powerful hollowness that had already begun to ache inside her. Dany sunk into his body, kissing Jon until she needed to breathe, then tucking herself against his chest. Jon held her tight as the sea gleamed in the afternoon sun, kissed her forehead.

“I’d say I’d call you, but…”

Dany laughed, despite the tears burning her eyelids. “Perhaps, I’ll call you instead, Jon Snow.”

“You better.”

He squeezed her tight, kissed her softly once more, and stepped away.

Two steps and he was on the boat. Within minutes, the dock was empty, only a churning wave of water left behind. Ser Barristan approached her right shoulder.

“We should return to the castle, Princess.”

Nobody disturbed her once she was back in her chambers. Everyone except Ser Barristan had disappeared, but she would have given anything for Jon’s bright presence at her side once more. Her entire room smelled of him. The bedding, the towels, even the smoky air wafting in from the balcony. Dany tried to pick up the book she’d brought, but reading proved impossible. No distraction could change how much she already missed Jon; the deep sense of sudden loneliness that came with his absence. Being lonely had been a staple of her childhood, but knowing the intimacy and trust and peace she’d found with Jon, and losing it, ached far worse.

Their flight back to King’s Landing seemed to pass in a blink, but her chambers in Maegor’s holdfast made her skin itch to be elsewhere. Jon’s scent didn’t linger in the castle, she couldn’t find any remnants of his presence in her bedroom or the adjoining rooms. Every inch of the space suffocated her with how pragmatic and empty it was. 

The morning after their return to the capital, Dany was called to her mother’s solar while she was still dressing. She arrived to find breakfast had not even been set up yet. Her mother, however, looked furious. One of her advisors bowed his way from the room, so quick he stumbled.

“What’s happened?”

Dany’s question only made her mother’s frown deepened.

“You and your  _ guest _ are this morning’s latest scandal, it seems.” Her mother’s nostrils flared. 

Dany faltered at the fury on her mother’s tired face. “Tyrion said to expect the news to pick up the story of his attendance in some manner,” she said carefully, but beyond anger, her mother’s expression was too closed off to read.

“I expected some sort of scandal out of this, Daenerys, it’s unavoidable given the boy’s birth and your current reputation, but—”

“Mother, what—”

“You were  _ seen _ , being intimate with that—” Rhaella took a deep breath to try to calm herself. “This is Daario all over again, or that Dothraki Khal we had to cover up when you ran off with him. But this is far worse since the boy’s a Westerosi high lord’s son.”

Her entire body went cold. “But, we didn’t—”

“Don’t tell me he didn’t spend half the weekend in your bed, Daenerys. Some of our guests may be obtuse, but I am not blind. You cannot keep making these same mistakes. You  _ let _ him—”

“I didn’t  _ let  _ Jon do anything I did want or ask of him,” Dany snapped, her chest burning. “Yes, we were intimate—not that it’s  _ anyone’s _ business but mine and Jon’s. And we weren’t out in the open by any means. I’m not that stupid.”

“You continue to prove otherwise. How am I  _ ever _ meant to trust you with the crown if you cannot even control your  _ lust _ for—”

Dany left. Despite her mother’s angry voice calling after her, and even Ser Barristan’s mutterings that they should return to the Queen, Dany kept going. She found herself back in her chambers, her stomach in knots and boiling with fury. She dismissed her sworn shield to guard the door and bar anyone from entering. Before she realized it, she’d changed into the most common clothes she owned—her sweatpants and an old hooded sweatshirt her mother always scoffed at—and was tugging on the old sconce next to her fireplace. At once, the stone wall behind the enormous grate slid open. Dany ducked inside as it closed behind her.

She descended the old secret passageway’s stairwell, following it down, down, down into the depths of Maegor’s holdfast and then further into the bowels of Aegon’s High Hill. After sneaking out so often to see Daario, Dany was quite familiar with the hidden passages and tunnels buried under King’s Landing, and moreso, the ones that would lead her right into Flea Bottom and back to Jon.

She wasn’t going back to her mother’s rooms to be scolded like a child. For once, Dany was quite certain she’d done nothing to deserve her mother’s wrath. Whatever pictures or video the press might have, she and Jon had not gone out of their way to advertise themselves. They were not at fault. 

And she missed him, more than anything else, longed to sink right into his arms, to listen to the steady, gentle thud of his heart under her ear. To be with the only person who seemed to care for her instead of what she represented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that made up for the delay :P
> 
> Next up is Tyrion having a good old chat with Queen Rhaella in the aftermath of Dany running off... again.
> 
> Then it's Jon, Ned, Dany, and Sansa!
> 
> Let's say next update around the 20th? Tyrion's POV is usually a quick one for me, and it shouldn't be as long as this one was.
> 
> Thanks for reading and hanging with me for this journey!


	13. TYRION II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some Tyrion and Rhaella :)
> 
> And just what IS that footage floating around about our cuties?
> 
> Also thank you to @adecila for the lovely moodboard!!!! :D
> 
> Enjoy!

  
  


* * *

 

Summons from the Queen were an expected reality of Tyrion’s job.

Advising Daenerys came with a great number of perks—free living quarters in the Red Keep, endless casks of wine, invitations to every royal affair—and more than a share of pitfalls—limited leisure time, press dealing as Daenerys meandered through her youthful rebellions, little in the way of his own personal life. Even several years into his position as the Princess’s top advisor, Tyrion had yet to figure the Queen’s summons into one category or the other. Of late, they seemed to favor the latter.

“Lord Tyrion, Her Grace awaits you in her solar.”

Ser Oswell Whent’s baritone voice did nothing to ease Tyrion’s concerns. The Queen’s sworn shield gave him the same blank stare he offered to everyone. Compared to Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell was half a glacier. Even the great black bat on his snowy cloak offered more warmth.

Tyrion passed through the entry hall to the Queen’s chambers, unsurprised to find the room spotless and absent of servants. All morning the Queen had been in a towering mood since Daenerys had fled the castle. No ladies-in-waiting, no maids, not even a servant to pour wine or serve the midday meal. Never a good sign, but he resigned himself to the best outcome he’d anticipated since inviting Jon Snow to Dragonstone.

_Like mother, like daughter, these Targaryen women and their impulsive temperaments._

When he reached the solar door, it was thrown wide, a burst of heat wafting from the room. A roaring fire was in the grate, made the air so dry and stiff Tyrion’s throat itched. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find the old oil paintings on the walls had crumbled to dust, but each was still intact. Dragonstone’s magnificent landscape painted by Queen Alysanne centuries ago. Aegon the Conqueror seated with his sisterwives on either side, displaying the royal sigil for the first time. Summerhall in its hay day, before fire had consumed its halls. Since then, the old castle had gone through a dozen half-completed restorations, but forty-six years later Summerhall sat empty and quiet.

Sweat broke out under Tyrion’s suit as he entered the room, but there was nothing for it. Rhaella loved a roasting fire, no matter the season, just like her daughter.

Before he could make his painful way to one knee, Rhaella stomped into sight, her anger hovering above her like a brewing storm. Only her crown glinted brighter than her furious eyes.

“Sit. Now.”

Tyrion sat in the vacant armchair furthest from the hearth. The leather crinkled under him, stiff with the heat. Outside, the midday sun peeked into sight amongst the hazy city smog. He tugged at his shirt collar to give himself a breeze.

“Your Grace will be pleased to know that Princess Daenerys is safe and her whereabouts are known. Ser Barristan is on his way to Flea Bottom to—”

“ _Flea Bottom?_ ”

He couldn’t stop himself from sighing. The Queen gave him a scornful look and continued to pace before the fire.

“Yes, Your Grace. She went to see Jon Snow after this morning’s… discussion.”

Daenerys had at least had the sense to use the city’s ancient underbelly of tunnels to make her way to her lover. Security cameras lined almost every inch of those secret passages these days, made her easy to track, and kept King Maegor’s hidden labyrinth in and out of the Red Keep under surveillance. Not one report had come in yet spotting her outside of the Red Keep.

Regardless, such news would not please Rhaella. Even in a calm, regal state, Rhaella was not fond of the boy. She’d almost skinned Tyrion when she’d found herself cornered by his invitation a few weeks ago. Yet Daenerys running to Jon was exactly what Tyrion had expected once he’d heard of the argument. Just as he’d anticipated some manner of overreaching by one press outlet or another. The Queen’s advisors, however, had not seen fit to pass on his assumptions, it seemed.

Of course, Daenerys would sneak out to find comfort in Jon Snow. She’d snuck out for much less when that miscreant Naharis had been a revolving door in her life. Being well on her way to in love with Jon had sealed that decision.

“Problems arise and she runs right to the source.”

_Again_.

Tyrion didn’t need to hear that particular word out loud to feel its presence in the Queen’s fury. Yet, Jon was different. He’d suspected it prior to the long holiday weekend, but four days observing the man had given him every assurance Tyrion could have hoped to find. Instead of presenting as a new, damaging problem, Jon Snow was a solution to a great number of issues the last few years had created.

“I hardly think Jon Snow a problem, Your Grace. In fact, he called as soon as—”

“Don’t get smart with me, Tyrion.” Rhaella paced past him once more, and shot him another dangerous look. Her steps quickened as she turned and took another lap past him. “This is that Daario boy all over again. Another man out to manipulate her, to draw her away from her future, to go after the only thing any man _ever_ wants. This morning’s scandal proves that clear enough, and your absolute _lack_ of concern—”

“Your Grace, I… forgive me, but, have you actually looked at the footage from this morning’s ‘scandal’, as you’ve named it?”

Questioning the Queen in a normal situation was frowned upon. In Rhaella’s current temper, however, Tyrion half-expected to be whipped, fired, and flung into Blackwater Bay from the Red Keep’s tallest tower.

Her words and ongoing agitated fury, however, convinced him of what he’d suspected since he’d been woken by Lord Varys that morning. The Queen had lost her temper at the very mention of a scandal, had been so enraged by what she’d claimed would happen all along, that she’d jumped the gun entirely. Her empty chambers, the lack of servants and advisors, all spoke the truth. Tyrion cursed inwardly at her advisory team and their complete spinelessness. Not one of them had the gall to face Rhaella’s temper head on, to push past it to ensure the full story was provided. Instead, whoever it was had fled in the wake of her anger, and left both Rhaella and Daenerys the worse for it.

“No,” Rhaella snapped, her cheeks coloring. “As if I would watch my own _daughter_ in whatever lewd footage Stark’s bastard took of them.”

He snorted. Rhaella’s steps faltered, her skirts whirling as she spun to face him.

“You dare to laugh when my little girl’s—”

“Please, just watch the video.”

He didn’t offer her his tablet, but he did pull the console out and open it the _Mockingbird Daily_ website. Littlefinger’s entourage was rarely not the culprit. Rhaella breathed like a raging bull, her lilac eyes flashing in the glowing fire. After several tense moments, however, she held out her hand.

Tyrion passed the tablet over and waited. Her entire face shifted as the short clips of badly edited video played. In his mind, Tyrion could see it all once more—the Targaryens’ private, northern lagoon and the winding stairs up the cliff-face. A distant speck of white that marked Ser Barristan’s presence, but the zoomed in focus on Jon and Daenerys was crystal clear. A small private picnic, the pair standing at the water’s edge, Daenerys in his arms, resting against his chest. Their short kisses were hardly noteworthy and far from scandalous. Tender was the best way he could describe it. Within minutes, one of Dragonstone’s notorious storms had rushed in and flung the camera drone into the cliffs.

Rhaella set the tablet down after the video ended.

“Have the remnants of the drone been found?”

“Not yet. Lord Varys contacted Dragonstone’s security staff to search the beaches for it, and to comb through the weekend’s security footage to see if there were others.”

“Very well.”

Her voice had softened considerably from the thunder that had greeted him. Humbling the Queen certainly wasn’t a hobby of Tyrion’s, but more and more it was developing into a habit. Especially when it came to Jon Snow. She seemed to think the boy dangerous, and Tyrion could understand why. Between Rhaella’s own horrendous marriage and Daenerys’s history, it was easy to assume the worst of Jon. But moreso, Tyrion was certain Rhaella feared that, this time, perhaps Daenerys had chosen wisely.

Tyrion cleared his throat and finished his explanation, now that he had Rhaella’s quiet attention.

“Daenerys is at Jon Snow’s apartment in Flea Bottom. He called me as soon as she arrived to let us know she was safe. Ser Barristan should be down there soon, if he’s not already. She’ll return in the morning.”

_If we’re lucky_.

Unless she and Jon had looked themselves up online, or flipped onto a news channel, Tyrion doubted either of them understood just how lackluster their scandal-creating abilities were. The public was eating up the gossip and the short video had already gone viral, but it was far from the raunchiness the Queen had condemned her daughter to suffer.

He could scarcely blame Rhaella for her response. Daario was a huge mark against Daenerys, a youthful decision that could haunt her footsteps for decades to come. However, assuming ill when Daenerys’s name appearing in the papers or on a news site was becoming all too commonplace inside Maegor’s holdfast.

“I was wrong,” Rhaella admitted after several more minutes had passed. “To assume the worst and berate Daenerys without the entire story.”

“Yes, you were.”

She cast him a warning look before taking her seat in the armchair closest to the fire. After a moment, she grabbed the fireplace poker and jabbed at the glowing logs, sparkles fluttering in the air. The fire began to dwindle as she pushed the biggest log aside.

“The public’s reaction is quite positive, Your Grace,” Tyrion told her. “Near giddy, I’d say. Lots of, uh, heart eyes and excitement, as Missandei put it. They seem quite keen on Jon and Daenerys’s budding relationship. _The Seven Stars_ will no doubt have something uncouth to say, but the Faith has never taken well to illegitimate children. Whatever Baelish was attempting to stir up, I daresay it’s backfired for the time being.”

“Yes, it looked a very sweet moment.” Rhaella set the poker aside and folded her hands in her lap, but her fingers twisted together restlessly. “Daenerys hasn’t smiled like that in a long time.”

From the forehead kiss to the easy way they’d embraced, then ate and talked and _laughed_ before fleeing the sudden storm, Tyrion could only agree. In the handful of years he’d known Daenerys personally, he’d never seen her so happy and at ease around someone. The same being true for Rhaella, though, was a difficult reality to face. His Queen had never had much happiness in her life. Spare moments with her children when they were young, but even then life had not been kind.

_Whatever gods or fate that’s real, I’m glad she’s found Jon. Now, she just needs to keep him._

“They appear very close already,” Tyrion said carefully. “An honest and mature relationship from what those around them have told me. Ser Barristan, Missandei, even Ser Arthur and Prince Rhaegar approve of Jon’s character. Lord Willas spoke fondly of him from their school days, and Lady Olenna positively raved about the boy. They’re all quite impressed by Jon.”

“He presented himself well,” Rhaella admitted stiffly, “but surviving one royal event does make him capable of living the lifestyle. The man Daenerys marries needs to _more_ than presentable. He needs to be right for the crown as well. He will never wear it himself, but the children he sires and raises _will_. And…”

She faltered, a miserable contemplativeness crossed her beautiful face. Her and Daenerys looked much alike. In forty years, Tyrion was certain Daenerys would be the spitting image of the woman seated across from him. Thin, short, a long sheet of silver-gold hair going gray. They had the same nose and full lips, though Rhaella’s cheeks had thinned with age and stress. Wrinkles lined her eyes, mouth, and forehead, craved deep in the light and shadows of the fire beside them.

“How can I ever hope to retire to a peaceful life with my children as they are?”

“Your… Your Grace?”

Tyrion reeled at her words. No ruling monarchy in Westeros had ever retired like some common citizen from their job. The very idea was unheard of— _ludicrous_. A monarch served until death, or—in a few rare cases—they had become too sick to lead. Both of those kings, however, had died shortly after their sons had ascended to the throne. To willfully step aside was inconceivable.

“I was never meant to rule, Tyrion.” Rhaella’s sigh was sharp and sad. She lifted her crown from her head, admired the delicate band in the firelight. Unlike her public crown, this one was simple, light. A necessary adornment and beautiful, but gentle. “I was never trained to lead, merely to follow. _Aerys_ was bred to sit the throne, and I to sit in the bedroom and breed. My father’s expectations were always clear.”

“Your Majesty, you _are_ the ruling queen. Our very first, with quite a positive reception and a successful reign thus far. To retire—”

“Is my decision, my lord. At least a few years of my life will be my own. Not my father’s nor my brother’s nor the crown’s. Mine, to sit by the sea, to see Braavos again perhaps. To dote on my grandchildren, if I am ever so fortunate. It’s past time Rhaegar takes his rightful place, but…”

She shook her head, scooped the fireplace poker up, and stabbed the remaining log.

“You fear he’ll abdicate in Daenerys’s favor.”

In theory, Rhaegar doing so was not a world-ending concept, but a great number of obstacles lay in that path.

“She could not be further from ready,” Rhaella said. “If Rhaegar steps aside for her, the lords and ladies will not confer the decision. With all of this bad press and poor decision-making she’s had these last few years, Daenerys would not have the support she needs to rule effectively. Not to mention they would never agree to coronate an unwed queen with no foreseeable heir, who is also the last of our line. If the unthinkable were to happen, Westeros would be left leaderless. Scrambling to sort out how to stabilize itself.”

Tyrion could only nod. All of her concerns were reasonable, and most were worries he’d taken into consideration time and time again. Daenerys, at least, was young. Just reaching an appropriate age for marriage, still learning and growing. Now that her college years were officially at an end, their princess was about to step into politics and define how she would govern and rule some day.

“When he was Daenerys’s age, Rhaegar was ready. Thoughtful, kind, but stern, too. Capable of bearing the crown’s burdens and righting the damage his father had done. Until Elia and my sweet little ones perished. Ever since, his talents have shriveled, his disinterest only grows.”

Tyrion had not known the prince in those days. He’d been but a small boy himself when Aerys had lived, but it wasn’t difficult to track the changes and dark melancholy that had consumed Rhaegar in the aftermath of his wife and children’s murders. Westeros’s once bright hope for the future how diminished in an instant. Not that the public had the particular truth. Circumstantial evidence had not been enough to convict Aerys for the murders of his good daughter and grandchildren, along with her sworn shield, Ser Lewyn. Not even rumors had come from it. Just as Daenerys did not know all that her father had been, the public did not either.

“Our prince will do his duty,” Tyrion said, though he wondered how true his words would prove to be. “And, I suppose, if you retire by choice, Rhaegar doing the same once Daenerys is ready would be easier for the country to digest.”

“Will she ever be ready?”

“I’ve alway believed in her, Your Grace,” Tyrion reminded her. “I would not have accepted this job if I didn’t. But Daenerys has never been one to trail meekly behind your skirts. Her spirit is fire. Restraining her does not tame her, nor help her navigate her future. She must create her own path, face her own hardships and understand her own weaknesses, if she is to rule successfully and continue the foundational work you’ve begun. The framework of a ruling Westerosi queen has been established, very much to your credit, but that does not mean Daenerys should spend her formative years, nor her ruling years, playing hopscotch with your footsteps when the rain’s already washing them out. The world is changing, _rapidly_ , and so must the monarchy if it is to remain.”

Instead of answering, Rhaella opened the side table bar between them, poured herself a glass of bourbon and took a long sip. “Every time I think I’m finally going to dismiss you, I’m reminded of why I hired you in the first place.”

“Your confidence is appreciated, my Queen.”

“Don’t get cocky, Tyrion Lannister. Daenerys is far from prepared for what she faces. Even with this morning, running off as she did—”

“Not without due cause.”

Rhaella glared at him, waited until Tyrion bowed his head in submission. Then she poured him his own glass and offered it to him. Tyrion did his best to savor the bourbon’s smooth burn, but downed half the glass in one swallow.

“Sixty-five was the age Rhaegar and I agreed on. That he would take over then, at the latest, but two years is not enough time if Rhaegar does as I suspect he wants.”

“A lot can change in two years.”

All at once, Tyrion regretted saying it. Rhaella scoffed before chastising him.

“Two years is but a few slow blinks. Certainly, I could arrange an acceptable suitor for Daenerys and start the new year with a betrothal and a marriage. It would not be considered uncommon or odd for royalty. Even some of the aristocrats still tend toward arranged marriages. Married within a year, and with a newborn heir, or close too it, in two.”

“She would never be happy with that.”

_Especially now._

“Nor should she be,” Rhaella agreed. She went quiet once more, but her gaze dimmed as it always did when the subject of marriage came up. “I did away with forced marriages for a reason, and I never want to put Daenerys in such a position. Love may be fleeting and fickle, but I want her to have a chance at that. At the very least, I hope she can find a man capable of supporting her once she’s queen. A caring husband, a loving father, an intelligent man who can be a steady presence at her side. She’ll need it, once she takes the throne. She’ll need a husband who can raise good children, and be a good father while she takes on the responsibilities of ruling. Rhaegar and I will not be around forever.”

“And you think Jon Snow cannot be that for her.”

“Jon Snow is…”

But what Rhaella’s immediate thought on the boy was, Tyrion could only guess. Ill-born. Common. Perhaps even lucky to have a high lord father bold enough to raise him well when the other high lords and ladies still ignore their illegitimate children.

“I did not spend the time with him to form an opinion,” Rhaella said after a moment. She shot Tyrion a scathing look. “The Unification Day celebration is hardly the place to meet my daughter’s potential suitor.”

“Only potential? I think both Daenerys and Jon would disagree with that assessment.”

She shut her eyes and exhaled sharply. “Just how many nights did they spend together?”

“All but one, I believe.”

She flinched at the confirmation, took another sip of her bourbon. Tyrion finished his glass and set it aside.

“An early practice run on those grandchildren you wish to dote upon.”

“Tyrion.”

“And they’re set to be beautiful, I’d say, between Daenerys and Jon. He’s quite the looker.”

“ _Tyrion_.”

“So long as you’re prepared to have the future of the Targaryen dynasty parade around with wild, dark curls.”

“My _lord_.”

Despite the color in her cheeks, Rhaella’s eyes weren’t angry. She glanced at the dwindling fire, swilled her glass, and fell silent.

“I cannot say what the future holds, my Queen, but, for the time being, Jon has brought quite a bit of happiness to Daenerys’s life. She’s calmer, more focused since her visit to Lord Reed’s fundraiser. Missandei has said she’s even found a focus issue for the coming year—one that Jon has insider knowledge on. Together, with some training perhaps, I think they could become a formidable pair.”

“And if their lust proves to be vacant of true affection?”

“Nobody who has seen that video would think it just a simple, lustful romp.”

She considered that, eyeing him once more. “No, perhaps not.”

He waited then as Rhaella finished her bourbon and set the glass aside. Calming her had been simple enough once she had seen the video, but being able to joke with her was an even better sign. Still, Tyrion kept silent to draw her out.

After several minutes, Rhaella did as he’d hoped.

“If you think him capable, and prepared for the lifestyle and all he would have to give up, then I will allow their… courtship to continue.”

Jon’s trip to Dragonstone left Tyrion with little doubt.

Already, the Targaryens’ inner circle had taken a liking to Jon Snow. From sworn shields to advisors to the crown prince himself. Time and time again, Jon had demonstrated a strong character and integrity amongst people who considered themselves his superiors. Moreso, he’d met the challenge without overreacting.

Intelligent, polite, articulate if a bit gruff, but proven he was well-versed to high society’s ridiculous laws of etiquette. Charming, but not aware of it. Grace and dignity in a husband would serve Daenerys well, and his stalwart presence would help, too.

Surrounded by aristocrats, Stark’s bastard boy had held his own.

“I have full faith in Jon Snow.”

The Queen frowned, contemplative as her expressionless facade fell into place. “Extend Jon Snow an invitation for the Knight’s Winter Ball. And tell Daenerys to have her focus issue’s framework outlined in time for our annual visit to the Reach next month.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Tyrion bowed and was dismissed, scurrying into the hall before the Queen could retract her invitation. He had no doubt that Jon would accept. With this month’s trip to the Westerlands, October’s visit to the Reach, and November’s charity work before the Knight’s Winter Ball in December, Daenerys’s time and attention would be elsewhere. Come December, Jon Snow would be yearning to see her.

And Daenerys…

_She’s in love with him already, or quickly finding herself there._

Yet, the Queen would do best to discover that on her own. Some things needed to be seen instead of told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for now!
> 
> Rhaella is, hopefully, becoming a bit more clear. We'll be peeling her like an onion right to the bitter end, my dears. She's one of my favorites, though :)
> 
> Next up is Jon! We'll be flipping over to see how they're handling things, and probably get a few cuddles in, too.
> 
> Look for the next chapter around the 29th or so. Cheers!


	14. JON V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter appears!!!
> 
> Time to get the Jon and Dany side of the not so scandalous scandal. Enjoy!

  
  


* * *

 

Jon’s clothes smelled of burning timber, soot, and rot.

Around him, the fire crew peeled off their equipment and protective gear. Boots were lined up under each locker, breathing apparatuses were tucked into their proper slot, helmets on the top shelf. Jon’s body ached as he toed his civilian shoes on, and slid his regular shirt over his head. Despite returning to King’s Landing just the evening before, Davos had called him in for an enormous blaze on Flour Street. Even now, the fire was still smoldering six blocks up the summit of Rhaenys’s Hill, smoke coating the sky like a bruise. More old rowhouses not up to code were the culprit. Half of the lower city was little more than easy kindling in the late summer heat with how tightly packed all the old narrow alleys and streets were. 

One spark became an inferno.

Beside him, Waters groaned as he sat down hard on the bench, fighting to pull his boots off.

“Don’t be a baby.” Val rolled her eyes, but she winced as she slid her protective coat off. “Nine hours is easy work.”

“I didn’t say nothing!”

Davos appeared, still in his ash-covered gear. He clapped Waters so hard on his shoulder he sagged under the pressure.

“You did fine for your first multi-house fire, Gendry.”

“And almost ran an old man over on the drive,” Val added. 

Gendry flushed crimson. Jon cut in before he could argue.

“Don’t mind, Val,” Jon told her. “Get Tormund to tell you about her first gig. This crazy man chased—”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ , Jon Snow.”

He grinned and ducked her swat aimed for his head. “He chased her around that abandoned old tavern on Gin Alley with a shovel and a dead skunk. She was screaming.”

Val slapped his chest, but Jon only laughed, helped Davos unhook his equipment, then followed his boss back into the office while Val and Gendry continued to bicker. All the while, Jon smiled, his chest light, a warm happiness sunk deep into his skin. Not even lack of sleep could dim him.

“I take it your weekend was enjoyable.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Dragonstone was nice.”

Davos eased himself into his desk chair, groaning as his back cracked. He watched Jon with a knowing, fatherly smile.

“What?”

“Didn’t say anything,” Davos said, eyes sparkling. 

Jon’s cheeks grew warm under that look, his mind racing back to yesterday. To this time yesterday when he’d been sprawled out in Dany’s bed, naked and content with her pliant, soft body tucked against his. 

“You don’t smile like that for no reason, Jon, but if you don’t want to indulge an old man…”

A snort came from behind them. Val appeared, her blonde hair a rumpled mess. “Snow doesn’t kiss and tell.”

His whole face went red.

“Or fuck and tell.”

“Val, shut it.”

“What? You won’t give details, so we’ve gotta imagine it for ourselves.”

They both laughed at him. Jon was very glad Tormund wasn’t on-duty today. Since Jon had taken a long weekend, Tormund had worked days on end in his place. Of their crew, Tormund was the worst when it came to meddling in everyone’s sex lives.

“Best get that blushing out now,” Val told him, grinning. “Tormund’s going to be a nightmare once you’re both holed up here.”

“Look, it was a nice weekend. Dany and I—”

“Oh, a pet name!”

Davos chuckled as Val pumped her fist in triumph, then held out her hand. “Pay up, Seaworth!”

Jon gaped at them as several gold dragons exchanged hands. “Did you  _ seriously _ bet on me and Dany?”

“He said it again! Pay me!”

Another gold dragon was passed to Val, her gloating smile daring Jon to say Dany’s name again.

“You’re the worst.”

His phone rang before Val could answer. Grateful for the distraction, Jon turned away from their grinning faces, then rolled his eyes when Tormund’s ginger beard appeared on the screen. He swiped to accept the call.

“If you’re about to—”

“Magic. Your pussytongue is fucking  _ magic _ .”

“What?”

A rush of static rang in Jon’s ear, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor.

“She’s  _ here _ . In your apartment.” Tormund’s attempted whisper was far too audible. In the background, Jon heard someone laugh— _ Dany _ . “You’re teaching me whatever it is that you do with that pussytongue, Jon Snow. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“Put her on, Tormund.”

“Yeah, right, sure, but how—”

“Now.”

Tormund’s voice grew distant then, passing along Jon’s request as the phone was handed off. A moment later, Dany’s voice was in his ear, sweet but troubled.

“Hey, Jon.”

“Hey, what’s happened? Why are you at my place? Is Ser Barristan—”

“I’d rather tell you in person,” Dany told him. She paused, then said, “Tormund says you’re at work?”

“Big fire, got called in for an overnighter, but I’m heading home now. Just stay there, okay? Is Ser Barristan with you?”

She fell silent and that was answer enough. Worry prickled down Jon’s spine, knotted up his already sore muscles. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath as Davos and Val watched him curiously.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Did Tormund let you into my place?”

“Yes, he’s… sitting here, staring at me. He keeps asking if I’m a mermaid.”

Before Jon could answer, Tormund’s voice echoed in the background, “Are you? Hair like that, I mean…”

Dany laughed again, but it was a watery sort of sound very different from her carefree laughter over the weekend. 

“He’s harmless,” Jon assured her. “All bark and no bite. Just stay put, keep him there until I get home.”

Dany agreed, passed the phone back to Tormund. “She’s not a mermaid, is she?”

Jon grit his teeth. “No, just stay with her until I get there, okay?”

Tormund grunted, and Jon took that as a yes. He hung up and turned back to Davos and Val.

“I’ve got to get home. Dany… I’m not sure what’s up, but if you need me later, text me.”

Davos nodded. “Get some sleep first!”

Jon hurried out of the firehouse, pulling his jacket on as he jogged down the block to the subway. He took his phone out as he went, and found Tyrion’s number in his contacts. When Tyrion had forced the information on him over the weekend, Jon had been quite flummoxed by it, but perhaps Tyrion had expected this. Dany’s advisor seemed to constantly be a step ahead of everyone else.

“She’s with you?”

“At my place, yes. I just got done with work, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Good, I’ll send Ser Barristan over. Poor man’s frantic.” Tyrion chuckled dryly. “Tell Daenerys she’s expected back in the morning.”

“Sure, of course. What—”

“Best talk that out with her while I temper our Queen.”

Tyrion bid him good day and disconnected. 

Somehow, his words felt like another test.

The entire weekend had been one, though in ways Jon had not anticipated. Another prickle of anxiety ran through him. He took the subway stairs three at a time, swiped his card only to find the trains were running late because of the fire. Instead of waiting, Jon returned to the street and jogged the way to his building. He was panting and sweaty by the time he keyed in the building code and vaulted up the stairs. When he unlocked his door, Jon found the secondary chain latches in place. 

“Tormund, it’s me.”

A bristly patch of ginger beard poked through the crack. Tormund’s round blue eye examined him.

“What’s the password?”

“For fuck’s sake, I will break down this door if you don’t open it.”

Tormund gave a wild laugh and shut the door. Several scrapes of metal on wood followed, then the chains rattled as the door opened. Jon rushed inside and found Dany seated at his kitchen counter on one of his rickety barstools. She was dressed more casually than Jon had ever seen her. Her familiar sweatpants ballooned around her legs, and a great gray hoodie emblazoned with an unfamiliar university’s name engulfed her torso. Even her pale hair was almost hidden, tucked away inside the hood. If he’d passed her on the street, Jon doubted he would have given her a second glance.

“What’s wrong?”

Dany only hugged him, her weight sagging against his chest. Jon held her tight, felt her tremble despite the thick layers of clothes she wore. He eased her hood off, kissed the top of her head, and glanced at Tormund gawking at them.

“Thanks for staying,” Jon said to him. When Tormund didn’t take the hint, he added, “Don’t you have work soon?”

“Huh? Oh, right, I guess. But Val’d never forgive me for not getting all the details on—”

“Get out, Tormund.”

A huge grin stretched across Tormund’s face, his ginger beard catching in the midday sunlight painting golden stripes across the room from the high windows. Tormund winked, made a few lewd kissy faces, then left. Jon gave Dany another tight squeeze, then made sure the locks were in place on his door.

“Ser Barristan will be here soon,” Jon told her. “I called Tyrion on my way home.”

Dany scowled a bit, but the look faded quickly. She ducked her head, seemed almost ashamed by his words. He looked her over then. No broken bones or bruises. Her eyes weren’t puffy and red from crying either. Whatever had happened, at least Dany wasn’t hurt. The only oddities were her muddy shoes and the dampness on the leg cuffs of her sweatpants like she’d been walking through a stream.

“Thank you. I’m sorry about this.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m glad to see you.” 

Together, they sat on the edge of his bed. He was suddenly very aware of his haphazardly unpacked luggage. Rumpled suits, dirty socks, and dress shoes were piled up on the bed. Books and several empty coffee mugs decorated the container. Instead of sleeping and unpacking when he gotten home yesterday, he’d gone into work. His entire apartment would have fit into the chambers they’d had on Dragonstone. Despite her dress, Dany looked more out of place than ever before.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mother and I—Jon, there’s…” Dany took a shaky breath, and her eyes gleamed with unshed tears then. “Some sort of scandal. From the weekend. My mother—the  _ Queen _ was very upset with me about it.”

His insides shriveled at Dany’s words. A scandal could mean just about anything, but considering how they’d spent most of their time on Dragonstone, he had a few, immediate, horrible guesses. The Queen had only acknowledged him once when he’d first arrived, but Jon doubted something little would anger her enough to drive Dany here.

“A scandal about us?”

Dany bit her lip and nodded. “I don’t know what—the way she talked down to me, like I’m some stupid child, like we were...were flaunting ourselves or something! I  _ know _ I’ve fucked up a lot. Nobody ever lets me forget it. Not my advisors or the press or my own  _ mother _ . She never lets me forget a single mistake. Nothing’s ever good enough, but this time… you and I didn’t mess up. This weekend was the happiest I’ve been in forever and now its ruined.”

Anger boiled up in Jon’s stomach at her words. He squashed it down as best he could, but the very idea of Dany’s mother made him furious right then. Queen or not, a mother shouldn’t belittle her daughter or make Dany so upset. Especially if this was beyond their control. A mother meant love and unconditional support,  _ kindness _ . Perhaps he’d never known his own, but Jon had still been raised in a household where he’d gotten to see a good one. Lady Catelyn would always despise him. She’d given Jon a long, painful view of what a mother ought to be to prove it.

“It’s not ruined,” Jon told her. “Not unless we let whatever this is ruin it, okay?”

He kissed her cheek and hugged her tight once more. For some reason, his assurances only made Dany’s tears pool faster. They sat together as the summer sun faded behind the haze of smoke, arms tight around each other as Dany cried against his shirt. When she calmed, Jon wiped her cheeks.

“This might all be over something small,” Jon told her, hoping he was right. “Tyrion didn’t seem too worried when I called him. Let’s just take a deep breath, then check the news and see what we’re dealing with, okay?”

Dany nodded just as someone knocked on the door. Ser Barristan’s voice was muffled, but distinct. Even so, Jon peered through the peephole to make sure it was his lover’s sworn shield and nobody else.

“Princess, thank the gods.”

The old knight spared Jon a single glance before he shut the door and rushed to Dany’s side. Jon locked the door again.

“I’m fine,” Dany told him. She shooed off Ser Barristan’s hovering and looked at Jon. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“Over with?”

Jon nodded at Ser Barristan’s puzzled expression. “We were about to look online to see what exactly this scandal is.”

“Princess, it’s—”

“I want to see it for myself,” Dany cut in. Her voice was suddenly sharp and laser-focused. She stood up and shook out her hair to bunched in her hood. “If it was an inside job, or someone leaked security footage from my chambers, then I want to see it for myself.”

Even as she took his phone to begin searching, Jon’s heart faltered at her casual words.

“Security footage of—are there  _ cameras _ in your bedroom?”

“Of course.” Dany tapped away on his phone, didn’t even offer him a glance. “I’m watched every moment of my life, Jon. You know that.”

“But… your  _ bedroom _ .”

His disbelief and anger made Dany pause. She gave him a cautious look and set his phone on the bed.

“What? My room’s had cameras since I was born. Before that, honestly. Every inch of Dragonstone is visible by security cameras. Most of the Red Keep, too. Lord Varys even has most of the secret passageways under the city monitored.”

Jon sank onto his bed, dumbfounded. His insides shriveled again, but for even worse reasons. Their privacy had been a farce. Every kiss and touch and tender moment had been on some hidden screen for a nameless guard to watch. He glanced at Ser Barristan, and found the knight’s face bowed in something too much like shame and embarrassment.

“Jon?”

“Someone was  _ watching  _ us? All weekend? Even when we were—when you and I—”

Just saying it made Jon’s mouth dry, a rise of bile creeping up his throat. Nobody should see such moments between them. Every intimate moment and kiss and laugh was theirs alone. Royalty or not, everyone should be allowed the bare minimum of privacy in their own bedroom.

Dany bit her lip. For the first time since his outraged question, she seemed to be troubled by her reality.

“Only Ser Barristan has access to my room’s cameras and the balcony. Yours, too,” she told him, but she hesitated on each word. “They’re for my protection.”

“And to watch every single instant of your private life. Of  _ our _ time together.” 

“I’m a princess, Jon. The very last of the Targaryen line. My safety is paramount.”

Jon flinched at her stiff tone, at just how vast their views felt on the matter.

“I’m not saying I want to risk your safety, Dany. Gods, I’d do just about anything to keep you safe, but…” He blew out a harsh breath and tried to piece his argument together through the emotions churning in his chest. “I don’t want someone— _ anyone _ —watching us when we’re alone together. Whether we’re sleeping or talking or having sex, that’s our time. Nobody should be a part of that except  _ us _ . Just because you’re a princess doesn’t mean you owe every single second of your life to others. Especially if there’s a risk of someone stealing that footage.”

“They didn’t.” Ser Barristan cleared his throat and glanced at each of them, his face pink. “I delete the previous day each morning, and once… after the first night, I kept the bed camera turned to the balcony doors so that you could have privacy. As much as possible. They’re visual aids only, no audio.”

Dany watched him for several moments. Her brow was wrinkled, eyebrows dipped in thought. She seemed to at least be considering Jon’s concerns.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. Cameras, security, guards, its all normal for me. I… I don’t even think about how strange it must seem to others, honestly.”

“You don’t have to apologize. This is…” Jon shook off his jitters and squared his shoulders. “Let’s just see what this scandal is first, then we can talk more, okay?”

Dany joined him on the bed, and together they searched their names online and found quite a bit from the last several hours. Most were news sites reporting on the same thing: a breaking report from  _ Mockingbird Daily _ . Jon didn’t know much about the various online and published news outlets, but he’d at least heard of this one in the last few weeks. Their reputation was quite slimy.

“It’s just us on the beach,” Dany said in relief. 

Jon let the short video play through and tried to get past how weird it felt to watch himself on screen like that. But this was Dany’s life. Cameras and television and life in a very bright spotlight. Being with her meant accepting the same for himself. Including the stress and fatigue that came with it. He shut his phone off and tossed it on the bedside table as a sinking, wonderful relief filled him.

“She was angry about that?”

Dany’s face had gone blank, but very slowly her temper crept into her features. Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowed, even her lips curled.

“Dany, hey, it was nothing, love.”

“Not the way my  _ mother _ reacted,” Dany snapped. “You’d have thought we were caught fucking in the middle of Aegon’s Garden or that we’d murdered someone.  _ Gods _ , it was nothing.”

Jon almost said maybe the Queen’s information had been incorrect, but he held his tongue at the look on Dany’s face. She stood to pace, arms crossed, her tiny feet slapping the floor like the crack of thunder. Ser Barristan stood aside for her. Despite his knowledge of royal etiquette, Jon hadn’t a clue what happened next. Greeting a queen was one thing, but the politics of the press and scandals was beyond his experience.

“What now?” 

She continued to hold herself and pace, stewing in her fury at her mother. Jon caught her elbow on her next pass.

“Hey, sit. Relax.”

Dany dropped down beside him with an angry huff. She blew her hair out of her face and glowered at him.

“It’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dany admitted. “With the press and so forth, it’s fine. We’ll release a statement about us. I’m sure Tyrion’s already got one prepared, that’s simple enough. But…”

“Your mother.”

“Why can’t she just  _ trust _ me? Or give you a chance? That video was nothing to yell at me about, nor something I walked myself into.”

“Dany—”

“It’s another choice of mine that she doesn’t like. It’s her always assuming the absolute worst. Its your name not being—”

Dany faltered on her words. Some of the heat left her. She lowered her gaze and took a deep breath, but Jon had no doubts about where that sentence ended. The Queen didn’t like him. She’d, perhaps, turned a short, simple video into a weapon to separate him and Dany. Maybe she’d even assumed he’d set the moment up, though their picnic on the beach was far from juicy. A point of gossip about their new relationship for the masses, but nothing scandalous. Jon clutched Dany’s hand tight and held her close.

“Everyone thinks the same, with a name like mine.” Jon kissed her lips to cut off her furious retort. “Let her, if she wants. I’ve never proven the Queen wrong before, but I’m not going anywhere. I have loved every minute I’ve spent with you and I’m not planning on stopping. If we have to prove her wrong, too, then we will.”

Dany gave a watery laugh and cupped his cheek. Her fingers scratched over his whiskers, her thumb plucking at his bottom lip.

“Even if I’ve got security cameras in my room?”

Her attempt at humor fell flat, but Ser Barristan seemed ready to return to that conversation.

“Jon, I swear I will never watch you two alone together, but protecting—”

“It’s not about that.” Dany’s words surprised Jon, as she paused to consider her next words. “I’ve never thought of those cameras as abnormal, but I suppose they are.”

“Even at Winterfell, there’s only external cameras. A few in the main hall and the crypts. The historic areas, you know, but not in our private spaces. I don’t want to put you at risk, Dany. If the royal security force and the Queen insist...”

“No.” Dany lifted her chin, shook the last of her silver-gold locks from her face. “You’re right. This video might have been from one of our rooms, and that… gods, I don’t want to consider the fall out. Surely there are other ways that are just as effective. Other technologies that can be employed on my doors and windows or-or—”

“Motion sensors, perhaps.” Ser Barristan frowned, but he seemed serious in his considerations. “Dragonstone’s systems are old as is, but all of the island is behind these days. In part because of the storms, they wreak havoc on every external security system we’ve tried. The volcanic activity tends to mess with things, too, but it’s something to be acknowledged and corrected, if the Queen agrees. In the Red Keep’s private quarters as well. Lord Commander Tully will have some ideas, I’m sure, on newer technologies we can employee that aren’t so invasive. You should be allowed a degree of privacy, and I’ve always done my best to ensure that within the systems we use. And, personally, I’d rather not have access to… _ that. _ ”

Ser Barristan’s eyes shifted from Jon to Dany and then downward. His cheeks turned pink once more.

“I’ll talk to her about it once I return,” Dany told him, but a steely note had entered her voice. “She owes me after this.”

Jon sighed as she leaned against his side, tucked her head under his chin. A wave of exhaustion crashed into him then. He’d not slept in over twenty-four hours, and spent near half of that holding a high-pressure fire hose. Jon yawned, trying his best to cover it. Dany looked up at him.

“Did you work all night? Tormund said you went in yesterday.”

“You mean, when he wasn’t asking if you’re a mermaid?”

Dany rolled her eyes. “He seemed quite convinced without any help from me, but he was very nice. Did you know he was born at one of the prison’s beyond the Wall?”

Jon nodded. “Hmm, yeah, at Giantsbane. My uncle’s the first ranger for the supply runners up there. He’s been to Giantsbane, Frostfangs, the whole lot of them.”

He stifled another yawn, but still caught the spark of interest in her eyes. “You thinking of becoming a criminal, love?”

“No, I just… I want to do more to help Lord Reed and his orphanage. To help those kids.” Dany frowned, and folded her hands in her lap. Even then, she still tangled her fingers together. “I’ve been trying to learn more, but there’s not a lot of information available about the Free Folk.”

“I know a bit,” Jon offered. “From my crewmates and my time at the Wall and in the army, but that’s it, really. Uncle Benjen might know more, too. And I can ask Tormund whatever questions you’ve got. And Val. She wasn’t born beyond the Wall, but her parents were.”

Dany beamed at him, an excited gleam in her eyes he’d not seem before. She pecked him on the cheek. 

“Thanks, I really appreciate it. Missandei and I have been trying to formulate a plan to make the Free Folk a focus issue for me next year. To help the kids and adults, if there’s some way to do.”

“Just treating them like people and giving them the chance to be more than soldiers and the like would be a good start. Val’s always wanted to be a doctor, but no university will accept her surname. She can’t even train to be an EMT since she’s a Skirling. They’re good people. Not their fault where they were born, or that their parents broke whatever law. Its the same as bastard surname, really. Just the way it is.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Dany fell silent as Jon stretched and swallowed down another yawn. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m used to it,” Jon said, but he yawned once more, his eyes crinkling. “Part of my job, and that fire was huge. I was supposed to be off until tomorrow, but fires don’t wait for anyone.”

“How big?”

Dany scratched his back, her hand working up his neck to his scalp. His eyes fell shut. Before Jon knew it, they were laying back on his messy bed next to his rumpled clothes from the weekend.

“Whole block of old rowhouses,” Jon mumbled. “My muscles are all cramped up from holding the fire hose for almost nine hours.”

“ _ Nine _ hours?” 

Jon gave her a sleepy nod as she lay down on her belly beside him. Her muddy feet kicked up in the air, crossed at the ankles.

“I’ve gone longer, love.”

A bright pink blush covered her face, and for the first time since he’d gotten home, Dany’s beautiful smile greeted him.

“I need a pet name for you, too,” she decided. “ _ Love _ .”

Jon chuckled. “Jon’s fine. Just like calling you that.”

“Hmm, I’ll find a good one.” She pecked him on the cheek, then gave his bicep a squeeze. His sore muscles throbbed dully. “Do you want a massage?”

Jon squinted at her, curious. “Have you ever given a massage before?”

Dany biting her lip was answer enough. 

“Don’t laugh! I can still try.”

He laughed louder when she smacked his chest. “How about a bath? I’m gross, and your feet are about to stain my sheets.”

“What—oh. Sorry.”

Dany scrambled off the bed, then hiked her sweatpants up to her knees. She peeled her muddy shoes and socks off and set them by the door, but it made no difference. Streaks of mud ran up her calves.

“I suppose a bath would be appropriate. Where’s your bathroom?”

Jon pointed to the rickety wooden door next to the refrigerator. Before he could force himself to his feet, Dany was in the bathroom.

“I’ll start the—ah!”

He heard the rush of the showerhead, and the splatter of water on the tub. Dany reappeared, spluttering, her hoodie and hair soaked.

“You’ve got to adjust it so it comes out the faucet.” Jon rolled off his bed, and brushed her wet hair from her face, grinning. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Behind them, Ser Barristan cleared his throat. Water dripped down Dany’s cheeks as she eyed her sworn shield.

“Um, is there somewhere else or…”

“Just the one room,” Jon said, embarrassed. “There’s a couch up in the loft, if you want to relax up there. Books and a television, too.” Jon turned back to Dany. “Tyrion said he expected you back in the morning, so if you want stay here tonight…”

“I’d love to stay.” Dany smiled up at him, then rubbed the water from her eyes. “But you’re showing me how to not get attacked by your shower. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Jon kissed her, grabbed a few extra towels from the shelf next to his bed, and followed her into the bathroom. After a quick tutorial of his tub-shower combination, they undressed and filled the tub with steamy water and more than a handful of bubble bath. Jon fell asleep within minutes of sinking into the hot, soapy water. He dozed with Dany rested between his thighs, then woke to her sudding up his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. She’d left his embrace, instead turning to face him. 

“Hold still, silly.”

She leaned in, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest as she soaped up his curls. Foamy bubbles covered her shoulders and chest. A few were even on her chin and in her washed hair. The steam that had permeated the room when they’d first filled the tub had dissipated. Jon lifted his hand from the water and found his fingertips were pruny.

“How long have we been in here?”

“Shhh,” Dany murmured. She giggled, then placed a dollop of suds on his nose tip. “Let me finish bathing you. I’ve never gotten to bathe with a cute boy before.”

“Cute boy?”

Her eyes sparkled as she rubbed suds into his beard. Jon made a face at the feeling of them prickling and popping on his jaw.

“Very cute. Maybe the cutest,” Dany told him with a very serious look. “I’m sure you could win a few cute boy contests, and  _ definitely _ a perfect ass competition.”

“Not if I’m competing against you.” Jon yawned, then wiped the suds off his nose. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Dany leaned in and kissed him, once, twice, then a third time on his nose. A ruby glow lit her cheeks as she returned to his hair, the thick curls slipping through her fingers as she dragged them up on his head.

“Are you giving me a mohawk?”

“Might be.” She laughed as she sat back to admire her handiwork. “Not a good look for you.”

His head made a hollow  _ thunk _ as he sat back against the tiled wall. Water sloshed around them as Dany shifted to clean the bubbles from her hair. Jon admired her for a few moments: her gleaming silver-gold hair and her bright violet eyes, the rosiness in her cheeks that matched the pink of her nipples.

“You think we can convince Ser Barristan to sleep at Tormund’s?”

Dany rolled her eyes. “Probably not after my impulsiveness this morning. Besides, you need to rest. That bruise needs to heal.” 

And she poked him in the ribs on his left side until Jon winced. He swiped some of the fading bubbles aside and found a fist-sized purplish mark blooming on his skin. From last night at some point. The pain always faded to the background in the face of fire.

“Can I persuade you for a nap and then quiet sex?”

But Jon was already yawning again. Dany scooped up some water and cleaned the bubbles from his beard. Then she climbed out of the tub, and tugged the plug on the drain. She kneeled next to him on a towel and filled her cupped hands again.

“Head back, Jon Snow.”

He obliged her, shut his eyes as she rinsed his hair. They toweled off and collected their pile of dirty clothes. Ser Barristan was nowhere in sight when Jon peered into his apartment, but the dull sound of an insurance commercial played overhead. He set their clothes on the counter, then grabbed his laundry from the weekend. He tossed the whole pile into the washer-dryer as Dany watched him, wrapped only in a dark gray towel.

“You planning on forcing me to remain nude?”

Jon yawned again and nodded toward his wardrobe. “You can wear something of mine, until this is clean.”

Instead, Dany watched him twist the knobs to the washer settings, pulled it to turn the water on, then added the detergent and fabric softener in the proper slots. He was quite mystified by her curiosity until she spoke.

“I’ve never done my own laundry before.” She held up the detergent bottle and examined it. “So this is fancy soap for clothes?”

Jon snorted. “It’s hardly fancy, the cheapest thing available that doesn’t ruin my shirts.”

Dany set the container down, then picked up the fabric softener. “And this makes it soft?”

Jon nodded. If anyone else their age had admitted to never doing their own laundry, Jon would have been concerned. As a princess, though, Dany’s experiences were as alien to him sometimes as hers were to his lower class existence.

“It’s simple enough, once you know not to add too much or mix whites in with the other stuff. Or towels.” Jon gave hers a tug and it slipped to the floor. “You throw those in with your clothes and you get little towel fluffs all over everything else.” 

Dany crept closer to kiss him, then she swiped his towel from his hips and raced away. Her laughter echoed around his high-ceilinged apartment. She darted to the far side of his bed, then snapped the damp, heavy towel at him and caught him on the butt.

Jon grabbed the towel on her second whip, then wrapped Dany in his arms. They tumbled onto his rumpled bed together, laughing and smiling, Dany’s elbow nudging his bruised ribs. Groaning in pain, Jon eased onto his back, the piney scent of his soap and the strawberry bubble bath mingling together. He shut his eyes as Dany shifted beside him. His head was lifted, the towel tucked under it. 

“Hmm?”

“Our hair’s still wet,” Dany told him. She kissed his throat, pulled a blanket up over them, and tucked herself against his side. “Sleep well, cutie pie.”

“I’m not pie.” 

“How about Prince Charming?”

“That’s your brother.”

“Babe? Baby?”

“Are you gonna force me to wear a diaper, too?”

Jon felt her face crinkle against his neck until they both laughed. Overhead, the floorboards creaked as Ser Barristan moved around. The four o’clock news introductory music chimed in.

“Maybe something about wolves,” Dany decided. “Your family’s sigil is a direwolf.”

“Hmm, well, I do have a wolf,” Jon muttered, his words beginning to slur from exhaustion. “Ghost’ll like you. He’s a good boy.”

“You have a  _ wolf _ ?”

“Stays at Robb’s, with his wolf. We’ve all got them.” Jon yawned. Blinked once, twice, stared up at the familiar dark floorboards and the blurry gray light from the overcast sky outside. “You could just call be ‘love’, too.”

“I always wished I had a dragon, like my ancestors did… love.”

He felt her nose crinkle again, but she was smiling this time.

“I’ve got pictures of Ghost,” Jon told her. He waved his left hand vaguely toward the bedside table where his phone was. “On my phone, if you wanna see.”

Dany shifted away and then back. He could hear the clicks as she looked through them, cooing at the photos that went all the way back to when Ghost and his fuzzy siblings had been just pups. Then she gasped.

“There are  _ games _ on phones now?”

He opened his eyes long enough to watch her eager smile as she opened one after another. Something so simple shouldn’t be so endearing and thrilling, but her smile wa radiant as she tapped away at the little purple aliens on the screen. Jon brushed a stray hair off her cheek, shut his eyes, and let the sound of her steady breathing lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Ned! And then... Dany? I don't remember, lol. Let's make it a surprise.
> 
> For updates, I'm going to try rotating between this one and The Dragons' Song for a bit. So each will update every other Tuesday, on alternating weeks. So this week is Embers, next Tuesday is TDS, then Embers the following Tuesday. Hopefully, that'll work out until TDS is finished. That one is only going to be 16-17 chapters (and Chapter 9 goes up next week), so fingers crossed. If I can get chapters written and edited sooner, then I'll do my best to post early.
> 
> Cheers!


	15. EDDARD II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday, another chapter. 
> 
> Time to pay a visit with Ned!

Airplanes were his least favorite form of transportation. 

Cars, trains, boats, even horses would do, no matter how much slower they were. Ned preferred his feet on solid ground. He tensed as their plane began its descent, arching out over Blackwater Bay, the red roofs of King’s Landing coming into view through the thin strips of cloud. Beside him, Howland was sweaty and pale. He looked quite ready to dart for the plane lavatory to vomit a fifth time.

“Ten minutes.” Ned tucked his neck pillow under the seat in front of him, but it had done little good. Between Howland’s first, queasy flight and the narrow seat, his left shoulder and arm ached from being jammed against the window. “Then you can throw up in a real bathroom.”

Howland wiped his face with his sleeve, then clutched Ned’s forearm as the plane hit an air pocket and dropped like a roller coaster streaking downhill before leveling out.

“I’m walking back home.” Howland took several slow, deep breaths, then groaned and shut his eyes. “Gods, never again, Ned.  _ Never _ .”

His friend’s air sickness had been a good distraction, but at Jon’s name, Ned’s whole body went numb. Today was the day. In less than twenty-four hours, Jon would know the truth. Every puzzle piece would slot into place. Ned shivered as the scene outside his window turned from choppy steel-gray water to a marshy field then a paved runway.

Revealing the truth today hadn’t been planned. He and Howland would spent the better part of the next week in and out of meetings at the Dragonpit. Once a stone colosseum built to house the Targaryens’ dragons of old, the remnants of the structure had been restored and the interior built into the National Parliament’s official offices and chambers. Lord Manderly usually represented the Northern Assembly for Parliament’s annual summit, but Wyman had fallen ill in the last few months, finally bowing out and admitting he was too sick to attend. Ned had jumped at the chance to go, for any reason that would bring him south to Jon.

Now more than ever Jon needed the truth.

_ I should have told him long ago. I failed you, Lya. You and Jon. _

Guilt leadened him as their fellow passengers clambered to their feet to escape the plane cabin first. Ned and Howland sat until the rest had gone. Howland wobbled as they headed into the airport. As Howland ducked into the bathroom, Ned took a seat on a nearby bench and checked his phone. No new messages from home or Jon, but he sent a text that he’d arrived to Catelyn all the same. His shoulder throbbed once more, sweat prickling his skin. Even inside, King’s Landing was twice as warm as Winterfell had been.

He checked his bag’s side pocket for Lyanna’s journal, found its cool leather cover right where he’d left it. Ned thumbed through it, his sister’s loopy handwriting staring back at him from old, stiff pages.

_ You’ll tell him about me, won’t you, Ned? _

“I will, Lya. As his mother this time, nothing less.”

Ned turned the thin pages slowly, but he couldn’t focus on any particular passage for long. Phrases and individual words popped out:  _ We’ll both be brave like Brandon _ . _ Summerhall. You’ll never be without me. Dorne. My sweet little wolf. _

Over and over, every page began the same.

_ My sweet little wolf, you moved for the first time today. _

_ My sweet little wolf, I wish you’d crave something besides citrus. I smell like oranges no matter how many times I wash. _

_ My sweet little wolf, one day I’m going to tickle your tummy once for every time you’ve kicked my ribs. _

_ My sweet little wolf, picking your name has been so difficult, but I finally found one, a good Stark name--Jon. I hope you like it as much as I do. _

Ned blinked away the burning in his eyes and closed Lyanna’s old journal. Besides Jon, those dozen pages were all he had left of his little sister. He tucked it back into his bag and stood as Howland reappeared. 

“Have you heard back from Jon?”

“No, he’s probably been at work all night.”

Together, they left the airport terminal and found a cab to take them into downtown King’s Landing, to the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys’s Hill, where they’d be staying. Morning traffic jammed the streets as the city bustled to life around them. Unlike the North, autumn had yet to arrive here. Smog choked the streets as they inched along. A smear of smoke cut open the September sky like a bruise.

“He only got back a few days ago,” Ned said, more to ease his own misgivings about Jon’s silence. “I’m sure he’s just at work.”

_ If Rhaegar knows, if he told him first... _

Howland was still pale, but his normal calming presence was returning now that they were back on the ground. When Howland nodded at the smoke trailing across the sky, Ned could only agree.

“Must have been a big one, all that smoke.”

Their cab driver glanced back at them, blaring his horn without a thought.

“Down in Flea Bottom, milords. Burnt up a whole block and still going they’re saying.”

Ned looked at the trailing smoke again. “We’ll see if he’s in. Arya gave me the building code and where the spare key is. If not, we can do breakfast somewhere while we wait.”

Howland nodded. “We’ve got over a week, Ned. No need to bombard him today if he’s been working nonstop.”

Nodding in agreement with that was difficult. He didn’t want to tell Jon and then leave the next morning. Ten days, however, was a long time. Even if Jon refused to see him afterward, he might at least agree to talk with Howland before they returned to the North again.

But Howland was right, too. Jon had just come back from a long weekend with the royal family on Dragonstone. Four full days with Daenerys, the Queen, and  _ Rhaegar _ . A long weekend that Ned had known nothing about until Sansa had let it slip while video chatting with Arya. Ned had no illusions for why Jon had kept his weekend a secret from him, but even without Sansa’s slip-up, there was no hiding the video that had appeared yesterday morning. Every news outlet was talking about it. Speculating about Jon and Daenerys’s relationship, even cooing over how sweet they’d seemed on that dim, cloudy beach. 

Ned’s shoulder twinged again, another flush of warmth creeping up his neck and chest. He rubbed his shoulder and winced as a sharp prickle of pain ran down his arm.

“You okay?”

“Sore shoulder from those damn plane seats.”

“I’d take that over the endless taste of vomit.”

Their driver blared his horn again. “If you gotta hurl, do it out the window.” 

Getting to the Dragonpit took the better part of an hour. Ned and Howland checked into their extravagant chambers for the week, and greeted this year’s summit leader, Lord Kevan Lannister. Unlike his deceased elder brother Tywin, Lord Kevan was a firm, but gentle leader. He’d taken over the Lannister’s high seat on the Westerland Council to great success a decade ago.

“I’m surprised to see you both,” Lord Kevan admitted as they shook hands and strolled the luxurious halls of the empty parliamentary chambers. “How is Wyman faring?”

“He’s taken the rest of the year off to focus on his treatment,” Ned explained. “Seemed only right to fill in for him. Besides, I haven’t visited King’s Landing in a while.”

“I’m sure your son will be glad to see you.” Ser Kevan walked with them toward the diplomats’ entrance at the southern edge of the great domed building. “I understand he handled himself with great dignity and grace for the Dragonstone Unification Day celebration. My nephew spoke highly of him.”

Ned tensed at the reminder, another prickle of anxiety shooting through him. He adjusted the strap on his day bag, empty now except for Lyanna’s journal. Lord Kevan’s words seemed genuine at least. 

“Ned’s raised quite a few remarkable young men,” Howland said.

“So it seems.” Lord Kevan stopped at the doors and shook their hands again. “Enjoy the day, my lords. I will see you in the morning for the summit.”

Ned led the way into an underground hall lined with white subway tiles except for one, thicker line in red and black. Targaryen sigils were carved into each. He chose the stairs that led up to the gate at the Dragonpit’s perimeter instead of following the snarling dragons further down to the subway. Above ground, a welcome blaze of sunlight greeted them. They exited through the security gate past a group of students arriving for a tour.

“Breakfast first or should we give Jon a try?”

Howland rolled his sleeves up as they turned down the steep slope of the Street of Sisters. 

“Jon’s. We can bring him along if he’s not at work.” Howland patted his stomach. “Give me a bit longer to rest my stomach.”

Ned’s calves burned as they walked, each step hard and jolting from the hill’s angle. He was drenched in sweat by the time they turned onto Flour Street, and panting five minutes later when they descended into the shaded, narrow roads of Flea Bottom. His heart hammered against his ribs like the pounding of a jackhammer. Beside him, Howland was in much better condition. Their brisk walk had returned the color to his cheeks and put a smile on his face.

“I hated cities as a boy, but this is quite nice.” Howland led the way onto Jon’s street, glancing at the building numbers until the sweet aromas of baked goods filled the air. “Pentoshi bakery, wasn’t it?”

“Tyroshi,” Ned corrected as they stopped before the bakery’s display window. Towering cakes, platters of pastries, and colorful dragon-shaped sugar cookies dominated the display. “Stained glass door in an alcove, Arya said.”

A bell chimed as the bakery door swung open, and a broad man appeared before them, carrying a paper bag with the bakery’s logo.

“Ser Barristan?”

The old knight spun around. He wasn’t dressed in his customary white, but instead in a dull gray version of his armor, and a tight hooded jacket with the hood pulled up. Ned had never seen the logo in person, but he recognized the emblem of Jon’s firehouse over the left breast. Even so, Ser Barristan Selmy was distinct to anyone who was familiar with him.

“Lord Stark.” Ser Barristan glanced at Howland and offered a small smile. “Lord Reed, too. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

They both shook hands with Ser Barristan. 

“Are you here to see Jon?”

Ned nodded, but the easy familiarity in Ser Barristan’s tone was jarring. Not Jon’s full name or a formal title. He was simply Jon to the royal princess’s sworn shield. And if Ser Barristan was here outside Jon’s apartment, then surely that meant Daenerys was upstairs with Jon.

“I’m in town for the summit,” Ned explained as Ser Barristan scanned the street, then turned to the little alcove hiding the stain-glass door. He keyed in the entry code and held the door for Ned and Howland. “We thought we’d surprise Jon. Texted him yesterday, but he didn’t answer.”

Ser Barristan made sure the door was shut tight behind them. “Princess Daenerys came to visit him early yesterday.”

“A welcome distraction from work, no doubt,” Howland ventured. “We saw the smoke from the fire.”

“He spent quite a while fighting it night before late,” Ser Barristan said. “I can’t imagine it’s still burning, but this time of year…”

Summers in King’s Landing were dry and hot, despite the river and bay along its perimeter. Fires were rampant from mid-spring until winter arrived.

Ned took in the interior hallway as Ser Barristan and Howland headed upstairs. He’d never been to Jon’s apartment before. Despite trying to see Jon when he’d been in town for business the last few years, Jon had always been busy. With work or fishing trips with his friends, always with something to keep Ned from visiting. A video call with glimpses of Jon’s home didn’t compare to seeing it in person. 

The hallway was shabby, but clean. Dark green wallpaper patterned with roses covered the walls, peeling away in strips and at the corners. Marble floors gleamed under the dusty ceiling lamps. Every other stair creaked as Ned followed Howland and Ser Barristan to the second floor. Jon’s door was at the end of another narrow hall, facing the back of the building. Instead of entering, Ser Barristan knocked.

A few moments passed before the locks clicked and the door opened. Jon stared at them, curls rumpled from sleep, wearing a loose knit sweater and boxers.

“Pop? Howland?”

Hearing that name brought a lump to Ned’s throat. All six of his kids had called him Pop when they were small, with their sweet, carefree smiles. Only his oldest three had tried moving beyond it. Jon had been the first, silently shifting to Father when Catelyn or any visiting lords were around, but by the time Robb and Sansa had outgrown the name, Jon hadn’t said it in years.

“Hey, kid. Good to see you.” 

Howland gave Jon a quick hug as Ser Barristan disappeared into the apartment. Ned followed, accepting a tight embrace from Jon, who yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“The hell you two doing this far south?”

“Work,” Ned told him. “Lord Manderly couldn’t attend this year’s summit.”

He gave Jon another squeeze, then took in his apartment for the first time. Jon’s bedroom in Winterfell was roughly the same size by floor space, but the soaring ceiling made up for it here. The single room was twice as high as it was wide. Curved, tall windows dominated the back and left walls, and a small loft threw the bed into shadow. A petite young woman was seated at the kitchen counter. For a second, Ned almost didn’t recognize her.

“Lord Stark, Lord Reed.”

Daenerys set her mug down to greet them. In her sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt, she was almost indiscernible from the smiling, put together princess Ned always saw on television. Gone was the make-up, tiara, and the pleasant, empty smile for the cameras. She wouldn’t have looked out of place in Arya’s bedroom, playing video games and shoving popcorn into her mouth by the fistful. Only her silver-gold hair gave her away immediately. He moved to bow, but Daenerys waved it off.

“Please, I’m hardly dressed well enough for bowing.”

She did shake Ned’s hand, however, her grip strong and sure, but her eyes seemed quite nervous.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Princess.” Ned glanced at Jon standing beside Ser Barristan, arms folded tight over his chest. “I understand you and Jon have become quite close.”

“Yes, you’ve raised a wonderful man. We’re very fond of each other.” 

Her smile was radiant as she looked over at Jon and then back to him and Howland. She hugged Howland, exchanging pleasantries as Jon looked on. When Ned caught his eye, Jon lowered his gaze. Ser Barristan scarfed down his breakfast pastry, gave Jon his jacket back, then tossed the paper bag into the trash can.

“Apologies, Princess, my lords, but we should get back to the Red Keep to prepare for the day.”

Daenerys’s smile fell slightly. “Yes, of course.”

As Ser Barristan stood guard at the door, staring through the peephole to the hallway beyond, Daenerys stepped into Jon’s arms. Howland wandered over to check out the view at one of the windows. Ned followed him to give the pair some privacy, but he couldn’t help the way his gaze drifted back to them. A powerful sense of unity and adoration hit him as the two hugged, talking softly together before sharing a few soft kisses. Already, they’d fallen so deep, so fast. Jon had eyes only for Daenerys in that moment, their foreheads resting against each other, until she stepped away.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Jon told her. “Tyrion’s got my number.”

Daenerys nodded. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” Then she turned to Ned and Howland. “It was nice to meet you, Lord Stark. And to see you again, Lord Reed.”

Jon shut and locked the door behind them. 

“She seems very nice,” Ned said, but Jon’s posture was still tense, almost defensive as he cleaned up the two mugs and the plate covered in crumbs. “The Queen allowed her to visit?”

“No.” Jon didn’t offer any further explanation as he rinsed the plate off. 

Another familiar wave of guilt hit Ned. Daenerys’s misadventures were no surprise to anyone these days, but Jon’s shortness spoke of a different reality behind his response. 

_ Will the Queen change her mind when she learns the truth? Will she love her illegitimate grandson or try to hide him further away for the sake of Rhaegar’s public image? _

Ned had no answers for that. For all the years he’d prepared himself for the repercussions of hiding Jon, he’d never figured out how the royal family would react.

If Jon chose to tell them.

If they didn’t know already. 

Hundreds of scenarios had snapped at Ned’s heels for every year that passed with Jon safe and alive. Every one had been full of a sickening, endless fear like a bone-crushing kraken was meticulously eating its way out of his chest. 

First, of waking one morning to find his sister’s tiny newborn murdered in his crib. Then of a toddling, beaming Jon falling suddenly, unexplainably, gravely ill. Of his rambunctious five-year-old son going missing, only to be found mutilated and dead on some wooded roadside. Aerys’s death had eased those early fears, but brought a thousand more in their wake. He’d wondered then, if Rhaegar or Rhaella would journey north to take Jon, but to what sort of life, Ned could scarcely imagine. 

As an illegitimate son, Jon would have had no place in the Red Keep or been an official member of the royal family. Jon would have been brought south and sent to some other lord’s home. No parent around nor siblings nor cousins. He’d have grown up separated from them all, perhaps banned from ever seeing Robb and Arya and the other Starks again. The very thought of Jon being ripped from his childhood at Winterfell, despite the difficulties that life had carried, had kept Ned awake at night. 

Lyanna had not wanted that life for her son.

Not the shame of being the crown prince’s illegitimate son, nor the burdens, publicity, and isolation of being raised away from both halves of his family. 

Yet Rhaegar had never come to the North. Ned’s fears of Jon’s life being ripped from under him had eased somewhat with each passing year, only to be replaced by the knowledge that the truth would some day do the very same. And then later on, wondering how much might have changed if he’d broken his promise to Lyanna from the first and told Rhaegar he had a newborn son. Jon might have been sent to Winterfell anyway, to be raised by his mother’s family so as not to be a visible tarnish on the crown prince’s reputation. Scandalous still, and deadly, too, for Aerys would have known the truth as well; would have hunted down his infant grandson just as he’d ended Elia and her children.

And perhaps, worst of all, Rhaegar might have known the truth of Jon’s birth all along, but decided that never acknowledging him was for the best. For himself and the royal family and the realm. Afterall, Ned had never quite figured out when Rhaegar and Lyanna’s lives had first crossed, even with Howland’s help. Sometime after Elia’s plane crashed, he hoped, but Ned had no way to be sure. Jon, at least, had been conceived after that, but he doubted such news would appease someone like Oberyn Martell.

_ Once the truth comes to light, will they welcome him or shun him entirely? Will he lose whatever goodness he’s finding with Daenerys? _

Questions without answers, over and over. They plagued him endlessly with every heartbeat closer he came to speaking the truth out loud to the one person it would matter to the most. Ned’s only certainty was his own fate. A swift, fair punishment set forth by the Crown was likely. Striped of his titles and position, sentenced to time at or beyond the Wall. Perhaps even exile, if Jon could not forgive him.

_ No more than I deserve. Exile would be too kind, and the Wall… it should have been me there instead of Jon. Perhaps now it will. _

“Ned?”

Howland’s hand passed in front of his face.

Ned blinked and shook himself, a great tremble running down his body. Sweat slicked his neck and forehead as Jon tossed him a roll of paper towels.

“Southern heat takes some getting used to.” Jon looked Ned up and down. “You don’t look too good.”

“Just tired,” Ned told him. He ripped a few paper towels off the roll and wiped his face and neck clean. They did little to stop the way his muscles shook. “Suppose I should exercise more. Did you ever get my texts from last night? We didn’t mean to surprise you so much.”

Jon frowned, then shut his eyes and laughed. He did something very strange then—ripping apart his messy bedding from blankets to sheets to pillowcases until he found what he was looking for.

“Ha, damn her.” Jon waved his phone at them, a mixture of amused and annoyed. “Battery’s dead. Dany… she’s not allowed her own phone. Or a tablet for personal use in case… well, for a lot of reasons. She was really excited to try out the games on mine.” Jon dug a charger out of his bedside table and plugged his phone in. “Probably didn’t realize its got to be charged either.”

“Phone games, huh?” Howland winked at Jon. “Is that what you kids call it, these days?”

Despite rolling his eyes, Jon’s cheeks turned pink. It wasn’t an answer, but it was confirmation enough of what Ned had suspected. He’d hoped to reach Jon before he and Daenerys became that intimate, if only so they both understood their relation before proceeding. Another hunk of guilt settled into his chest, throbbing and tight.

_ It’s my own fault for pushing it off. For waiting, as if there’s ever going to be a right moment to tell Jon near everything in his life is a lie. Every mess in his life is my blame. I’ve failed you, Jon. So many times, there’s no reason to count. _

“How’s breakfast sound?” Ned asked as Jon tossed his blankets back onto his bed. “We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Sure. Dany and I—Daenerys, I mean. We only split some toast and tea. Let me change real quick.”

Jon dug some clothes out of his wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom. As soon as the door shut, Howland came over to him.

“Ned, relax, you’re sweating like a waterfall.”

He took a seat on one of the barstools to collect himself, set his bag on the counter. Howland eased himself down onto the barstool beside him, brow furrowed.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Ned?”

“Yeah, I’m just… ”

He couldn’t explain the knot of emotion like a tangled garden hose caught in his throat and deeper in his chest. Relief that this twenty-year secret would no longer be his alone; that Jon would finally have his mother’s name and story. But terror, too, of losing Jon; of the devastation Jon would feel once he knew. Of finding out that everything but his name had been a lie.

Howland poured him a glass of water from the fridge and forced it into Ned’s hand. “Drink. You look half-dead.”

Jon returned a few minutes later, in jeans and a fire department T-shirt, his curls pulled back in a loose bun. He checked his phone, then grimaced.

“I gotta charge it up first in case work calls.” Jon turned back to them and spotted the glass of water at once. “That’s not from the faucet, right?”

Ned shook his head and finished the rest of it. His throat was still tight, his chest burning, but the water had helped calm him.

“Good,” Jon said. “The faucet water isn’t  _ toxic _ , but its a damn near thing around here.”

As Jon popped open the dryer wedged under the counter next to the fridge, Ned tried to find the words to start. Just bringing up the topic of Jon’s mother was like trying and failing to swallow a tennis ball. Jon pulled a dress shirt out and hung it in his wardrobe.

“So how was Dragonstone?” Howland gave Ned a significant look, but Ned’s jaw tightened like a noose. “I went once for a field trip my senior year, saw the obsidian caves and the Painted Table. Stormed like the world was cracking in two.”

Jon laughed. “Storms are wild there. I liked it, though. The castle’s beautiful and Aegon’s Garden, too. Prince Rhaegar took me on a tour of everything.”

Ned flinched at the name. Howland’s hand squeezed his elbow, gave him another pointed look.

“Did you spend a lot of time together? With the Prince?”

If Jon found the question odd, he didn’t show it as he finished putting his laundry away.

“Just the tour, really. I actually got to touch the Painted Table and he…” Jon frowned as he stuffed his socks in a drawer. “He talked about his daughter a bit. You know, Princess Rhaenys. The one who died in that plane crash with his wife and son.”

Another knot of sorrow and guilt filled Ned. “Yes, that crash was a terrible thing.” 

Ned swallowed, watching Jon check his phone again, then pour his own glass of water. That might have been him, too, just like his half-siblings. Their murders passed off as a tragic accident but for a few who had the truth. Very little of King Aerys’s worst deeds were public knowledge. His madness, however, had been impossible to hide at the end.

Jon leaned on the counter across from them. He sipped his water slowly, turned the glass this way and that in the morning light, slow, contemplative. Almost as if he was steeling himself for something.

“I expect you’re here, to see me, for more than just being in town.”

Before Ned or Howland could answer, Jon turned his gaze on them. Defensive, almost fierce in a way that took Ned right back to his youth. Lyanna might have been staring back at him in that moment, glaring up at their father, refusing to be stuffed into some puffy, constraining dress or told to curtesy and act like a proper young lady.

But unlike his mother, Jon had a crack in his resilience. A bruise hidden under his skin that started with Snow and ended with Eddard. His willful inheritance made him defiant like it had at fourteen when Jon had refused to name anyone besides himself for punishment, but also always seeking approval. Not from the rest of the world anymore, it seemed, but still from Ned. 

_ Always from me, to try to prove himself my equal. To have my acceptance and love, when he already does. You’ve always been far better than me, Jon. _

“If you’re going to warn me away from Dany, or against seeing her, don’t bother.”

“Jon, I—”

“I don’t care if you don’t approve of me dating a princess, or if the Queen thinks I’m too common. No matter what  _ anyone _ says, I’m not going to—”

Ned reached across the narrow counter and grasped Jon’s hand. “You’ve got my approval, son.” He swallowed on the last word, on the knowledge that it was likely the last time he would ever say it to the young man in front of him. “Not that you need it, but you’ve always had it. All I want for you is happiness, Jon. That’s… that’s all your mother ever wanted for you, too.”

“My mother?”

Lyanna’s defiance left Jon like a punctured balloon. In an instance, he was the wide-eyed four-year-old hovering in Ned’s office doorway, just fresh from his first day of preschool. Nervous, confused, and more solemn than Robb, even then.

_ “Pop? What’s a… a bastard?” _

_ Jon frowned, hugged his stuffed wolf cub tight, awake when he should have been in bed. Unlike Robb, Jon had nobody to catch him out of bed except Ned. _

_ “Who said that to you?”  _

_ “I’m sorry, Pop. I didn’t mean to say!” _

_ Ned’s anger frightened him, but when he beckoned Jon closer, his boy beamed and climbed into his lap. “Jon, I’m not angry at you, lad, but I want to know where you heard that word.” _

_ “One of the boys in my class.” Jon plucked at one of his wolf’s ears, tucked his curly head against Ned’s shoulder. “He asked my name and then he said Snow was a bastard name. Then he wouldn’t talk to me at  _ all _. But Snow’s a good name, isn’t it? Snow’s lots of fun to play in and make forts with.” _

“Father?”

Ned shook his head, felt Howland’s hand give him a shake.

“Yes, Jon, your… your mother. She wanted you safe and happy.”

Jon stared down at his glass of water, his movements stiff. “I know that. You’ve told me a hundred times that she loved me. That she would have raised me if… you haven’t talked about her in years.”

“It’s past time I told you about her, Jon. You deserve to know her, as much as you can. All these years, I’ve been trying to keep you safe and instead I’ve just been denying you her.”

Jon blinked a few times, chewed his bottom lip, then swallowed. “Safe? Why would knowing more about her—”

Across the room, Jon’s phone rang. They all turned to it, and Jon hesitated.

“It’s probably Davos. Hang on.”

Jon scooped up his phone and answered the incoming call. “Davos? Yeah, no, I slept. Same one? All right, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, okay? Bye.”

He tucked his phone into his pocket and returned to the counter. “That’s work. I’ve got to go help out. We’ve had this fire the last few days that doesn’t want to stop.”

“No worries, we saw the smoke when we got here.” Howland glanced at Ned and then back to Jon. “Go on, we’ll talk when you get back. You want us to bring you anything to eat?”

“Surprise me. There’s a bunch of takeout menus in that drawer if you want to order in.”

Jon hugged them again before he left. 

“We’ve got ten days, Ned,” Howland reminded him as they sat and finished their water. “Plenty of time.”

As Howland pulled open the drawer Jon had gestured to, Ned walked around Jon’s apartment, still sweating. A few pictures of Jon’s fire crew, old photos of him with Robb and Arya, another with a much smaller and younger Bran on his shoulders, one of Jon and Robb swinging Rickon between them, another with all six kids and their wolves. Ned smiled at each, then made his way up the stairs to the loft space.

“I found the couch,” Ned called down to Howland. He took a seat and set his bag on the lopsided coffee table. His vision swam for a moment, then came back into focus as Howland sat down beside him.

“Ned, I think you should lie down. You look…”

“I’m fine. It’s just the heat and nerves. Telling him is so much harder than I thought it’d be.” He shook his head twice to clear his vision. His shoulder gave a stiff throb as he opened his bag and pulled Lyanna’s journal out. “This is all that’s left of her now and I… it’s Jon’s. It’s the only way he’s ever going to know her.”

“He’s got us, too. All our stories and… maybe Rhaegar, too. Jon’s going to be fine. This is just going to time.”

“And a prison sentence, no doubt.”

Howland sighed. “We’ll get to that once Jon’s okay.”

_ If he ever is _ .

Another wave of dizziness hit him, like a tidal wave had slammed into his chest, pressing him down beneath the waves. The room faded from sight, Jon’s tiny, thin face peering around his open office doorway.

_Pop?_ _What’s a… a bastard?_

“Ned?”

Jon’s little face molded into Lyanna’s, sweaty and deathly pale, her weak hand grasping his.

_ Promise me, Ned. You have to protect him. _

Lyanna’s journal slipped from his grasp, thumped to the floor as Howland’s worried face blurred before him. The room turned sideways, his heart pounding like a drum in his skull. He crashed to the floor with the weight of a cement wall pressing him down.

“Ned!”

His vision went dark like a cloud crossing the sun. Everything disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't think I'd make it that easy, did you?
> 
> Come on, my dears, we're only on Chapter 15 of 44!
> 
> So, next Embers update should be in two weeks. A Dany chapter, if I remember right. The Dragons' Song is next Tuesday (hopefully). I have been a bad man and have fallen behind on writing. But, deadlines help, so hopefully that schedule works out. 
> 
> Until next time!


	16. DAENERYS V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tuesday, just squeaking in with 35 minutes to spare, haha.
> 
> Time for a Dany chapter featuring the answer about Ned's fate and other miscellaneous things.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

  


 

* * *

 

Her mother’s chambers were detrimentally formal. The air was stilted and stuffy. Amongst the rarely used furniture set at strategic spots. Four ornate chairs circled the Queen’s formal dining table in the corner between the balcony doors and the fireplace. A massive oil painting of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives stared down from the mantle, ever watchful and critical. Black tapestries of their family’s formal crest hung from floor to ceiling, some in the modern variant, others as replicas from previous centuries. Reminders of the past littered every inch of the room. Three-headed dragons, their eyes chips of obsidian, followed Dany as she joined her mother at the table laden with platters of steaming food.

Her mother’s sitting room alone was twice the size of Jon’s apartment. Yet despite the crackling fire and familiarity, it held little warmth and charm. Nothing in sight spoke to her mother’s character. No books, no scattered evidence of hobbies, no personal effects nor any decoration that didn’t fully represent the Queen’s political position and power. Since she was a girl, Dany had never liked these chambers. Too stoic, too false, too impersonal. 

Someday, they would be hers.

“Daenerys, thank you for joining me.”

Dany adjusted the skirts of her formal dress, her neck straight with the extra weight of her tiara. She missed Jon’s bed, and waking to the warm freshness of coffee burbling as it brewed. Getting to relax in the nude with him, then laugh as he bundled her up in blankets when she complained about his cold toes. Most of all, she missed his laugh.

“Your offer was very gracious, Mother.”

Keeping the surliness out of her tone wasn’t easy. Tyrion would have given her a long look over the lip of his wine cup, but he was barred from this meeting. Only she and her mother were present, even their sworn shields were stationed in the hall.

“Please, eat.” Her mother dropped a small cube of brown sugar into her tea, stirring up wafts of steam. “I expect you’re hungry.”

Dany bit her tongue. Already a rib at her unexpected night with Jon. Unasked for and unnecessary commentary on their activities, but Dany kept her silence. If her mother  _ was _ mocking her night out of the Red Keep, her face didn’t betray it.

Instead, Dany selected a portion of roast lamb, an oily heap of risotto, and wilted spinach. Every dish was delicious, but each delicate bite only made Dany’s jaw ache. Her posture was perfect, her bites miniscule. Another surge of longing ran through her. Only four hours ago, she’d been play-fighting with Jon over a buttery stack of toast.

The Queen drank her tea down to the dredges, then poured another cup. Her spoon clinked gently as she stirred in another cube of sugar. She didn’t lift the cup to her lips this time, however. A soft sigh left her as she set her spoon down. Dany eyed each shift carefully, waiting for the guillotine's blade to drop.

“Daenerys, I owe you an apology for yesterday morning.”

“I won’t stop seeing—” Dany faltered as her mother’s words wound into her brain. “Wait, you… what?”

“Close your mouth, dear, that’s most unbecoming.”

Her mouth snapped shut automatically, but Dany watched her mother. Rhaella’s shifting eyes, drifting from her face to the table, the bob of her wrinkling throat as she swallowed.

“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions yesterday,” Rhaella said, meeting Dany’s eyes for only a brief moment. “I should have gotten the full story first instead of making accusations against you and Jon.”

Dany waited for a more personal apology that didn’t come. That her mother was sorry she’d hurt her with her scathing words, or that she’d assumed the worst once more.

_ I’ve given her every reason to,  _ Dany reminded herself.  _ Its not only the press I have to prove myself to now. _

“Jon would never betray our privacy,” Dany told her. “He’s kind and loyal and loving. I know my judgement doesn’t count for much right now, but he deserves a fair chance unblemished by my actions.”

Rhaella considered her, but her lilac eyes were unfathomable. Dany waited, set her fork and knife aside and sipped her water.

“I intend to offer him that chance.” Her mother gave a small, decisive nod. “Tyrion is going to extend a formal invitation to Jon for the Knight’s Winter Ball as your guest. It’s unlikely we’ll have the time for a private dinner until the last of our annual visits are complete.”

No scolding lined her mother’s voice, but Dany took the hint clear enough. One more misadventure to see Jon, and Dany would be under guard around the clock. She amused herself for a few moments, picturing poor Ser Barristan forced to follow her into the toilet, blushing and embarrassed, at four in the morning.

“That would be lovely, Mother. I’m sure Jon would be happy to attend.” She took another sip of water and steeled her nerves for the topic she’d promised Jon to broach. “I’d also like to speak with you about matters of security within the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Specifically in regards to our personal chambers.”

Her mother’s eyes hardened, her mouth thinning to a fine line. “Daenerys, security is and will always be a necessary part of our lives.”

“Yes, but after this scandal, what that video footage might have potentially been, I think it’s important to have a discussion about this. About having cameras in our bedrooms filming every private moment.”

Again, Rhaella considered her. Every stern line of her face made Dany itch to straighten her tiara and fix her necklace, to present herself as a perfect student of all the lessons she’d been taught as a tiny girl. Instead, she held her mother’s gaze like Rhaegar did. She might not be Queen, but she would not turn meek before her mother’s scrutiny.

“Those cameras are for your protection, Daenerys. For the safety of  _ all _ of us. Removing them makes you vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to whom?” Dany expected to regret her daring, but the flicker in her mother’s pale eyes only emboldened her. “To hackers or paparazzi? To some member of Dragonstone’s security team who wants his five seconds of fame? Yesterday’s video footage could have been devastating if it had come from those cameras. Or is it my personal guests you fear? Is it  _ Jon _ you want watched instead of me?”

“I know you are fond of Jon Snow, but he is still a man, Daenerys. Men, at their core, are all the same. If you put a sword in their hand, the beast stirs. If you offer them a woman—”

“Jon is  _ not _ that sort of man and I am not some maiden to be bartered. Every moment between us has been consensual, Mother, and neither of us would ever settle for less than that.” Daenerys glared at her mother’s red cheeks and trembling jaw. “And yes, perhaps most men are beasts, but Jon isn’t. Rhaegar isn’t either, unless you know something of my brother that I don’t. Nor Ser Barristan or Ser Arthur or Ser Os—”

“Enough, you’ve made your point.”

Dany let out an angry huff. 

Rhaella, however, lowered her gaze. A swell of emotion seemed to have overcome her. She folded her hands in her lap very carefully, almost seemed to close in on herself. Like a lung, she shriveled then swelled, taking a moment to regained her usual elegance.

“Those cameras were all that gave me solace when you were first born,” Rhaella said softly. “I had direct feeds of your cradle and both your brothers’ rooms in my chambers on Dragonstone. Every moment, I wanted to see you all, to know you were safe after Elia and Rhaenys and little Aegon died. That nobody was near you who shouldn’t be, that you were perfect and alive.”

Dany swallowed down her shock. Nobody ever spoke of her deceased niece and nephew nor Rhaegar’s late wife. She’d learned of their fates in her lessons, and from Viserys one summer, when she’d dared to ask, at six, why Rhaegar ran off to Summerhall every July like clockwork. Each retelling have been blunt and factual, never anything more.

“I  _ am _ safe,” Dany reminded her. “But there’s more to safety than having a watchful eye over someone every moment. Especially with my current reputation. They’re all searching for dirt or a new scandal and trying to drag Jon into it. Being physically safe isn’t enough. We need to protect ourselves in other ways, too. Allow ourselves privacy, to not make our private lives vulnerable to being leaked footage on the six o’clock news.”

It was a long time before her mother spoke. When she did, her voice was back to its usual sternness, but her eyes were softer than Dany could ever recall.

“I will schedule a meeting with our security commanders to discuss your concerns and make the necessary changes, but  _ you _ will lead it. It’s past time for you to start taking a more active role. Consider this your first opportunity in preparation for the coming year. Have you thought at all about a focus issue?” 

“I have,” Dany told her. “Missandei has been assisting me with research.”

“Good. Domestic or foreign?”

“Domestic, both social and political.”

“I look forward to hearing more on our flight to Storm’s End in the morning. We’ll discuss it with Rhaegar and Tyrion once we’re in the air.” Rhaella took a long sip of her tea before considering Daenerys. “And you’re right. Privacy is important and while there are always threats to the royal family, we hardly have terrors like we did when you were small.”

Dany’s brow crinkled at her mother’s words.  _ Terrors? _

She was no strange to threats. More than once as a girl she’d been rushed away from wherever she was and hidden in a Targaryen safe house. For bomb threats or conspiracies and all manner of dangers that targeted herself or her mother and brothers. During her years in university, she’d lived off-campus in her own private flat for protection. But from what she understood of her childhood, of her earliest years on Dragonstone while her father still lived and reigned, Westeros had been a very peaceful place.

“Terrors? I’d always thought that—”

A knock sounded on the door. Ser Oswell appeared.

“Apologies, Your Grace, my Princess, Lord Tyrion has urgent news.”

“Send him in.”

Tyrion hurried forward with Lord Varys at his side, both looking very strained. Dany’s heart dropped at their expressions.

“What news, my lords?”

“Your Grace, our apologies, but news just broke that Lord Stark has been hospitalized. Here, at Pycelle’s Memorial in critical condition. Reports are saying it was a heart attack while visiting his son.”

_ Jon _ .

Dany stood up at once, nearly taking the table cloth with her.

“Did Jon call you? Is he—”

“No, Princess, I haven’t heard from Jon. It’s all over the news,” Tyrion explained. “We have someone making an inquiry at the hospital, but I’m not expecting much. The Starks are a prominent family. They’ll do their best to keep information quiet until Lady Stark or their oldest son releases a statement.”

She was halfway to the door when her mother’s voice stopped her.

“Daenerys, you cannot go running off again. We leave in the morning for—”

“I have to see Jon. To make sure he’s okay and that his father is—that he’s not going to—”

_ I have to be there with him—for him _ .

Her mother came to her side and grasped her elbow. “This is a shock, I know, but Jon needs to be with his father and his family right now. The last thing we need is to make a bigger scene by having you seen entering the hospital, Daenerys.”

Tyrion patted her arm. “Her Grace is right. I’ll keep you informed as more news becomes available.”

Dany swallowed and nodded. “Okay, but I want to call him, to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Of course. We’ll send our well wishes and make an offer,” Rhaella assured her. “Lord Varys, if you would.”

He gave a small bow, his bald head shining in the firelight, then left. Tyrion, however dug into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a phone. For a moment, Dany thought it was his own, but there was no protective case on it.

“This is for you, specifically to talk with Jon. No games or social media or any downloads will go through. We’ve put as much security as possible to block the number and keep it safe. It’ll let you contact him, but that’s it.”

Dany cradled it in her hands like an egg. “But I thought—”

“December is a long way off,” Rhaella reminded her. “But if we find you’re using it for anything else, or that it’s been compromised, its gone.”

Rhaella dismissed them. 

Dany made the walk back to her private chambers with Tyrion ambling along at her side. He spent half the walk explaining how to text on her new phone. Others might laugh or scoff in disbelief at her ignorance, but as a royal princess, Dany had never before been allowed her own phone. No royal was allowed their own personal computer or tablet or any type of online account. She understood the basics, of course, of how to get to a website and to search for whatever nonsense the tabloids were spreading about herself, but texting had only ever been a fantasy for her.

“Thank you for this. Truly. I expect Mother argued it was far more than I deserve after yesterday.”

Tyrion huffed what might have been a laugh. “This phone was her idea, actually. I suspect she sees it as more of a deterrent for your unruly adventures than a reward, but the goal’s the same.”

_ To keep me safe. _

She had only a moment to ponder her mother’s words from earlier, but Tyrion’s made her heart plummet into her stomach once more.

“Lord Stark’s condition sounded quite serious,” Tyrion told her. “My own father died of much the same, with a dash of colon cancer, bastard that he was. Don’t expect Jon to answer immediately. I’m sure he’s leading the Stark charge. He’s the only one nearby until the rest fly in.”

“Lord Reed, too.” At Tyrion’s raised eyebrow, Dany added, “He came down with Lord Stark for the summit tomorrow. I met them before I left Jon’s apartment.”

“Well, send my well wishes for his good health when you speak to Jon. And do  _ try _ to get some sleep. I don’t want to listen to you mumble your way through talking about wildlings and prison reform before my morning wine seeps in.”

“Free Folk,” Dany corrected as they came to a stop at her chambers. “Wildling is a slur.”

“Indeed? Then I wish them every fortune in convincing the rest of the country to abandon its usage. I’m sure they’ll get right in line to toss it on the fire heap with imp.”

As Tyrion wished her goodnight, Dany stepped into her chambers and shut the door. A small fire was crackling in the grate, her trunk was propped open and half packed, and a stack of books formed a lopsided tower on her table. On top was a note in Missandei’s beautiful, looping hand:  _ Every book I could find on the prison system. I’ve already annotated most of them, but we can talk more when you get the chance to read them, too! _

Dany smiled at that, but her stomach ached again. She clutched her new phone in her fist, then sent a quick text to the only number in her contacts.

When Jon didn’t chime back at once, Dany shook off her apprehension and focused on her packing. Attire for summer and fall weather, for rain and wind, for formal and semi-formal, even pretty-but-casual garden parties because Lord Renly loved to entertain. Everything she needed was neatly folded, set in place with Missandei’s pile of books and a few of her own. Sunset was a blush on the horizon by the time she was finished.

Jon still hadn’t answered.

Dany headed for her shower. If something else had happened, Tyrion would have come to tell her. Jon was simply busy at the hospital, either at his father’s bedside or awaiting news from nurses and doctors. Howland Reed was undoubtedly with him. Everything would be just fine, she told herself. Lord Stark was strong like Jon. He had a whole wonderful family to help with his recovery.

She was halfway through towel drying her hair when she heard the phone chime. Dany bolted into her bedroom, dripping water all over the stone in her haste to answer.

**_Jon:_ ** _ Is it okay to call? _

Dany fumbled over her own fingers trying to reply back, but within seconds of her yes, Jon’s call rang in. She stared at the different button options that came up on her screen, then tapped the one one that was green. At once, static came through the phone and a fuzzy image of what was unmistakably Jon’s bearded jaw.

“Jon?”

“Hey—oh.” 

Jon’s face appeared on the screen, looking exhausted but rather bemused. “Well, I did want to see your gorgeous face, even if you look like a half-naked, drown rat.”

She took his joking as a good sign, set the phone down with a hurried apology, then quickly dressed and returned to towel drying her hair on her bed, with Jon propped up on her pillow.

“How are you? Is your father okay?”

Jon took a shaky breath. “Touch and go for the next few days, but they’ve stabilized him for now. Howland’s a complete mess.”

“And you?”

“I’m…  _ gods _ , I was at work. Pop was having a heart attack in  _ my _ apartment and I… if Howland hadn’t been there…”

Jon’s picture froze then jumped to him seated at his kitchen counter. Dany recognized the great shadow of the loft over his left shoulder, the mess of blankets they’d left there that morning. Jon dragged a hand through his loose curls and sighed. He looked terrible. His jaw was clenched tight, his gray eyes troubled and rimmed with dark circles.

“He  _ was _ there, Jon, that’s all that matters. Your dad’s getting the help he needs from the best doctors King’s Landing has to offer.”

Jon only nodded, looking somewhere between grumpy and too tired to move.

“How are you holding up? Has Robb or anyone made it down yet?”

“Robb’s driving down with his wife. Um, Lady Stark… she got in about an hour ago.” Something in his face shifted then, like he’d stepped under his loft into the darkness, though Jon hadn’t moved an inch. “Howland’s still there, but… I figured I should come home. Get some sleep.”

His attempt at casual failed miserably. Jon had never spoken of his stepmother, not even in passing, and Dany hadn’t thought to ask. For the first time, she lingered on the idea of her, and more so on the birth mother Jon had never mentioned. Not once in all of his stories of his siblings and his father and their wild pack of wolf pups had Jon ever mentioned either woman.

“How was Lady Stark?”

“She…” Jon faltered and that was all the explanation Dany needed. “She took over sitting in his room with Howland.”

He stood up then, seemed anxious to move and avoid any more questions. An ache settled deep in her chest as she watched. From space to space Jon moved, clearing the counter of dishes, straightening his bedding, then trekking up the stairs to his loft.

“Jon, you can talk to me, about anything.”

A frown creased his brow as he scooped up a black book, examined the leather cover, then tucked it into a bag on the table. “Pop’s bag,” he said, his voice croaky and strained. “Howland forgot to grab it on his way to the hospital.”

He zipped it up, then dropped it in a corner next to the bookshelf.

“You can bring it to him tomorrow.”

Jon grunted, his voice still hoarse. His eyes flickered to her on his phone, then darted away. More than anything, Dany wished she could reach through the phone and pull him into her arms. She didn’t want to press him further, to bring more distress to an already horrible day, so she sat in silence as he settled on his couch.

“He was going to tell me about my mother.”

“Your mother?”

Jon nodded, then made a squeaky sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He set the phone on the table in front of him, propped up just enough for her to still see him. Face in his hands, Jon grabbed at his hair.

“Gods, I’m twenty-three, I should be past this.”

“Jon, anyone would have to know that, no matter what age they are.”

“I just… he never talked about her. He didn’t talk about anything from back then for  _ years _ . Not my grandfather or Uncle Brandon and especially not Aunt Lyanna.” Jon rubbed his eyes and looked up at her. He might have been a tiny boy before her, unsure and fearful of her reaction. “When I was seven, Robb and I realized we all had birth certificates when Bran’s came in the mail. And I figured it was my best chance to know. I snuck into Pop’s office one night and found it. Found her name. I thought that might be enough, but… I still asked him about her. He always said the same thing. That she loved me, that she died when I was born. That one day, he’d tell me everything I wanted to know, but he never has. I was around twelve when I stopped asking.”

Dany’s chest seemed to cave in at his words, at the loneliness blooming sharp and painful in Jon’s eyes. At the little boy that gazed back at her all of a sudden, vulnerable and hopeful and hurt, wishing only to have some piece of the mother he would never know.

“What was her name?”

Jon laughed then, the sound unnatural and clotted with emotion. “Wylla Sand.”

Dany wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but somehow, that wasn’t it.

“Or so my birth certificate says,” Jon continued more quietly. “I memorized every inch of it. The hospital I was born at is part of a woman’s shelter down in Dorne. And Wylla Sand… it’s a false name most likely. They use them a lot, to protect high-born ladies trying to avoid a scandal or women hiding from abusive men. Sometimes, I wonder…”

He trailed off, mussed up his curls and leaned back into the couch. When Jon’s silence dragged on, Dany filled it.

“What do you wonder?”

“If Pop ever knew her real name at all. If she knew his and not the other way around. If she was already dead when they called him to come collect his greatest mistake.”

“You aren’t a mistake, Jon.”

“Tell that to the rest of the world.”

“Surely, your father doesn’t think that.”

Jon frowned. “No, he doesn’t. Probably told me a thousand times I’m the furthest thing from it, but… one voice against hundreds, you know.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. No words she could offer would alleviate Jon’s desperate longing for such a foundation truth of his life. Only Lord Stark could give those answers, and right now he was in no position to do so.

“Listen to me, going on about my mother when Pop’s in the hospital and could die at any minute.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over that,” Dany told him. “Get some sleep, then go back over to see him. I’m sure Lady Stark will keep you posted if anything changes.”

“She’d sit there while he died and not say a word to me about it.”

The absolute scorn in his voice was as raw and sharp as his eyes. Jon scooped up his phone and returned to his bed. He stripped off his clothes and climbed under the blankets, barely visible on her screen until a little bedside lamp flickered on.

“If they said he wasn’t going to make it, she’d call you. Let you see him before—”

“She wouldn’t.”

“That’s horrible. What sort of parent does that?”

But Dany already had the answer. She could see traces of it in Jon’s sour gaze, in the downward curve of his mouth, and the shades of exhaustion under his eyes. 

“She’s always hated me, ever since he brought me home. No matter how much Robb and Arya and the rest got on with me, Lady Stark… don’t get me wrong, she’s a fantastic mother to them. All five of—”

“Don’t make excuses for her, Jon.”

“I’m not.”

“Aren’t you? She was good to her own children and somehow that excuses the way she’s made you feel all these years? The way she treated an innocent child?”

Jon rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Can we save this argument for some other time?”

Dany agreed, despite the prickles of anger coursing through her. Instead, she climbed under her own blankets and turned off her bedside lamp. Jon did the same, the screen glowing a staticy black beside her head. 

“I talked to Mother about security,” Dany ventured as Jon’s quiet breathing came through the line. “She seems open to removing the cameras.”

“Yeah? That’s g-g-great.” Jon’s yawn stretched to a high little whistle, then sunk to a soft grumble. “I never wanted to be a porn star anyway. That’s Theon’s idea of fun, not me.”

“Your foster brother’s a porn star?”

“Amateur. And a complete menace. He’s not allowed to visit Winterfell anymore.”

Dany smiled as Jon’s sleepy voice rambled on, talking about his foster brother’s career choices and the lewd pictures and videos he used to send “from work”. Before long, his words slurred as he drifted off to sleep. She scooped up her phone, whispered a few words of love, and ended the call.

 

* * *

 

Morning came with a rush of eating and travel. Dany was groggy and rather grumpy, but she kept her word to Tyrion and didn’t mumble her way through her focus issue discussion. Rhaegar seemed interested in her choice, and curious about the statistics, if there were any to be had. Tyrion seemed indifferent, overall, but her mother’s tight expression was unreadable. She asked a number of questions without any sign of approval.

Their arrival at Storm’s End was greeted with a parade led by Lord Renly himself, his husband Loras opting to remain at the castle to welcome them. The entire week was a blur of sweet wines, robust feasts, and autumn storms threatening to crack the rocky shores like a sledgehammer. Dany smiled and laughed and played her part. Lord Renly, at least, was an enjoyable host. 

Other lords and ladies in the Stormlands were not so fun. As the royal entourage made their trip around the province, Dany did her best to temper her social exhaustion. Having Jon to call most nights helped. His father’s health continued to improve, though he was taken North for heart surgery and to recover. Jon didn’t mention Lady Stark again, but neither did he say he’d visited the hospital either. Dany did her best not to pry—at least not until she saw him in person again—but seeing Jon’s pain like a shadow over his face made her insides twist in knots.

Missandei, meanwhile, proved to be an able and trustworthy companion. With each week of travel, Dany found herself going to her more and more. Having someone her own age to talk to and confide in, to explain her worries about Jon and to talk about the silliness of the day was a relief.

“I expect he’s just stressed,” Missandei told her, once Dany confided the truth of Jon’s relationship with Lady Stark. “His father’s health is difficult enough, but having your own stepmother barring the gate to see him, makes it worse. Then the distance to Winterfell and his job, too. Firefighting is a nerve-racking experience. Grey’s in the same boat.”

Missandei’s boyfriend was in Astapor helping to relocate refugees.

“We both seem to enjoy boys who like danger, don’t we?”

A beautiful laugh greeted Dany’s words, but Missandei didn’t disagree. 

They went back to their almost nightly research task, fact checking and scouring old books for phrases and information that would pave a path forward. Already, Missandei had an entire speech prepared for Dany—whenever the Queen decided she was to announce it.

The more they learned, however, the steeper her task became. Westeros’s prison system was old. Built, in part, on the remnants of what had once been the Night’s Watch, a force of men dedicated to guarding the Wall at their northern border from mythical legends, their modern prison system was far from perfect. Most of it seemed rotten from within, favoring the wealthy and high-born and leaving the less fortunate to harsh sentences. Worst of all seemed to be the Free Folks’ treatment. 

“They were refugees,” Missandei explained one night in late October as they made the drive from the metropolis of Casterly Rock to Highgarden’s glowing autumn foliage. “That’s all I’ve managed to find in an old record by an archmaester from centuries ago. People that lived north of the Wall were finally welcomed south, but they were treated like cheap labor. All their customs and lifestyles weren’t allowed by the Westerosi. Most of them ended up in prison or worse.”

“And the tradition and sigma has only continued.” Dany scanned the one page Missandei had found. It didn’t even amount to a full paragraph. “How could nobody think to do something to protect them?”

“It… well, it…”

Missandei’s sudden hesitation was remarkably out of character now that they’d gotten to know each other. 

“What?”

“Why would they? I mean, there’s the humane aspect, obviously, but… Westeros has almost always relied on a feudal system or a monarchy. When have the high lords and the elite ever cared about those beneath them?”

“But in Essos—”

“In Essos, the people are allowed to vote now,” Missandei reminded her. “ _ All _ of the people are allowed a say in the governance of their countries and cities. But in Westeros…”

In Westeros, it was still the aristocracy’s game. Noble lords and ladies had a voice in their province’s council, but in general, those councils were made up of members of prominent families. Money and lineage spoke to power. The common people didn’t have a voice at all.

“Maybe we should change that, too, then.”

Missandei’s disbelief was obvious. “You mean to… to lessen the monarchy’s power some day?”

And for that, Dany didn’t have an answer. Such a concept was not unheard of these days. Even in Westeros, the monarchy was not an absolute power like it had once been. Each province had its own council, and those councilors’ voices reached the ruler on the throne. Together, all seven and the Iron Islands could overrule a monarch’s decision or law, but it had never happened before. And yet… 

_ The people should have a say, too.  _

Like Jon. Or his friends, Tormund and Davos. Or Missandei, if she one day decided to become a citizen of Westeros. Even little Marcie, all gap-toothed and freckled. One day, she would grow up and be stuck with no opportunities to make a better life for herself.

“I want to help people,” Dany finally said. “To use my voice to lift them up and give them opportunities for better lives. Nobody should be made to feel their life is forever set on one path they can’t diverge from because of their birth or who their parents are.”

Saying those words stung, but a ringing truth thrummed through Dany all the same. It lingered with her as they welcomed the harvest with the Tyrells at Highgarden and then made their meandering journey around the Reach before setting their sights down the Gold Highway for home.

Returning to King’s Landing was strange after that. Her thoughts felt like a betrayal trapped inside her chest, heavy and pressing, but Dany swallowed down the lump. Preparations for December were already underway in the Red Keep. She considered confiding in Rhaegar or Tyrion or even Ser Barristan’s snowy beard and gentle voice. Yet speaking such a thought to any of them brought her up short, like a clamp had closed around her vocal cords.

_ Jon will understand. _

She hadn’t seen him in months, not in person. Not since the beginning of September, despite their frequent phone calls and a few rather breathy video calls that had left them both sweaty and sleepy. Dany was halfway to her wardrobe to dig out her sweatpants and hatch a plan to go down to Flea Bottom to visit him, when she paused. Her hand lingered on the handle of her wardrobe for so long, Tyrion arrived to insist she come to their weekly dinner.

“Princess? Is something the matter?”

_ I want to undermine everything the monarchy stands for. _

But that didn’t sit right enough on her tongue to voice it aloud either.

Dany let go of the handle.

“No, just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“The fall annual visits are always exhausting,” Tyrion agreed. “Come, let’s eat and drink and celebrate their end.”

She stared at her wardrobe door, the intricately carved dragon, the gleam of the maghony.

“Daenerys?” Tyrion sighed. “If you’re about to sneak off to see Jon, tell me now, so I can prepare.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was almost meek, but Dany straightened her shoulders before repeating herself, voice strong and sure. “I’m not sneaking out. I’ll see Jon next week for the ball, and we’ll talk tomorrow when he’s not at work.”

Tyrion eyed her for a moment, though his expression seemed quite pleased. “Not even for a booty call?”

“Jon is far more than that to me, and I… this isn’t all about me. Or Jon. Or me and Jon. I have to be more than myself. Some day… when I’m Queen, others’ needs come first.”

“When you’re Queen,” Tyrion echoed, though for the first time since he’d become her advisor, he didn’t sound troubled when he said that. “Come, Princess, I hate to miss a finely chilled Dornish red.”

“So long as you consume real food first.”

Dany followed him from her chambers and shut the door.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mhmm, I leave you here for now.
> 
> Thank you all for being lovely readers :) 
> 
> Cheers until next time!


	17. SANSA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I retuuuuurn!!!
> 
> For those who also read The Dragons' Song, you know this bit already. I was on a triple-threat birthday road trip for the end of March with my two besties. We birthday smashed through New Mexico, southwestern Colorado, and lots of Utah to go hiking through National Parks where we stared at cool nature shit. So, yeah, I was MIA for a bit. My apologies for not getting an update out for Embers before that happened, but TDS's last chapter took longer than planned.
> 
> The good news (besides this update!) is that it's Camp NaNoWriMo and I'll be writing Embers for the whole month :D
> 
> So, I'm hoping I'll be cranking out some Embers updates. Assuming I'm not sobbing over the return of the show in a few weeks.
> 
> And a thank you, thank you, thank you to aliciutza aka Alice aka the dearest, greatest moodboard creator that ever was for the new Sansa board :D
> 
> Now, enjoy our first venture into Sansa's POV!

 

 

College was nothing like she’d dreamed.

Brain-curdling exams, avalanches of books and essays, and a social calendar that never relented. Life was fast in the Reach, had left Sansa breathless a year ago. Exhilarated endlessly, but stumbling around Golden Rose’s garden-filled campus would have been whiplash without Jeyne. Her greatest secret had been a buoy of normalcy—they’d both needed each other that first year away more than they’d ever admit.

They had grown up together, noses upturned to all of Sansa’s wild brothers and even little muddy-kneed Arya. Sansa had only ever seen the stars in her eyes without realizing they were merely the flash of a bulb. Golden Rose had changed that. Nobody doted on her once she was beyond the North’s frosty borders. All of her classes were grueling and tough, every professor pushed her mind against the once comfortable constraints she’d trapped herself in and the world became far harder to understand. With Jeyne at her side, they’d begun to learn a truer, wider world, but those lessons had not always been timely or easy. She’d developed an interest in politics and the true hardships of others, discovered new experiences and fashions. So much rushed past, sometimes with her along the same breeze.

But some days, life was a brutal wind that knocked Sansa flat.

“Jeyne, you _can’t_.”

“Of course I can. Am. I _am._ ” Jeyne zipped up her suitcase and tugged her knit cap down over her ears. It was the last day of the semester. A crystal-like December frost glazed their dormitory window, filled with cracks like a spider’s web. “I’m not hiding anymore. I’m so _sick_ of playing pretend! So if you want to keep wearing this shy maiden mask and let everyone think you’re perfect and proper and waiting for the right _boy_ , then fine. Keep pretending. Don’t tell your parents or your brothers or anyone. But you’re not doing it with me anymore.”

“That isn’t _fair_. My dad’s been in the hospital—”

“And been out for two months.”

“He still needs to rest,” Sansa snapped, her cheeks flaming under Jeyne’s accusatory glare. “Once he’s recovered, maybe this summer—”

“And when we were home last summer? For three months?” Jeyne yanked her jacket off the hook on her wardrobe door. “Or last winter break, or the summer before college, or at _any_ point for the three and a half _years_ we’ve been together.”

“Arya knows. It’s not like I haven’t told anyone.”

“ _Arya_ overheard us because she’s an eavesdropping little wart. Not because you told her. You can’t even say it to me, can you?”

“I—I’m… we’re…”

As Jeyne pulled on her jacket and gloves, Sansa sank onto her bed. They’d been roommates for three semesters now, had absolutely gushed at the idea of having a tiny room that would be just theirs. Every sheer curtain and bright poster and stylish lamp had been purchased together, her mother strolling along behind them at the mall, all smiles and fondness.

_That’ll all go away if I tell Mother the truth._

Jeyne’s suitcase rolled toward the door. Sansa looked up, half-expecting her to take off her gloves and jacket and the cute violet knit hat Sansa had made Jeyne for her last birthday. She did pause at the door, a flicker of tears shining in her eyes.

“I get it, Sansa. I do. When I told my parents… it took time for them to work through me being gay.” Jeyne wiped her nose on her sleeve. “But I can’t keep waiting for you to be ready. I want to go on _real_ dates with you. To hold your hand when we’re walking to breakfast or dinner. To get to kiss you hello and to just _tell_ people that we’re together. You won’t do any of that for you _or_ me. I’m done.”

The door opened and closed with a soft click. All of her breakup expectations had been steeped in slamming doors and tear-streaked faces, of screaming fights and shattering objects. Sadness had always come later. The sudden empty silence was nothing like her favorite romantic comedies. Jeyne didn’t burst back into the room to confess her regret and adoration.

She was gone. Headed back home on the twenty-hour train ride that had only been manageable before because they’d been side by side.

Tears ran down Sansa’s cheeks. She fell sideways onto her bed, fighting down the burning howl building in her chest. When her phone rang, Sansa scrambled to answer it, knocked her water bottle and hair straightener off the dresser in her haste.

“Jeyne?”

“Wrong girl.” Arya’s voice was distracted, but cheerful. Bran and Rickon’s laughter punctuated her end of the line. “Mother wants to know what time you’re getting in tomorrow.”

A gasping sob left her. Sansa bit down on her fist, trying to stifle it, but it was no good. Arya had heard. She was discrete at least, mumbling something to the rest of the family and leaving their talk and laughter behind. Once it was silent besides Arya’s soft breaths, Sansa tried to speak, but ended up blubbering instead.

“S-she broke up with me. After all these—she said that… that I—”

Words abandoned her after that. Her chest squeezed tighter and tighter as her sobs filled their room. Her room. Only hers now. Jeyne was moving to a new dormitory when they returned for the spring semester. The life that they’d created together was over.

She didn’t know how long it took for Arya’s voice to get through to her. Even so, tears were still running down her face like a flood.

“Listen, let’s go to the train station. Jon’s on the subway heading your way.”

“It d-doesn’t come this far.”

But Sansa got up and stumbled out of her dormitory to the rickety train station across campus. Arya had already bought her a ticket that she collected from the machine. She curled up in a pair of seats when the empty train arrived, still crying and shaking as they rumbled east toward the closest subway station. All the while, Arya talked to her. Nonsense for the most part—Rickon’s latest daredevil stunt, Bran getting grounded for climbing trees in the godswood, Robb and Margaery’s pregnancy announcement.

“I hope its a girl. We need more girls with all our dumb brothers,” Arya said as the train rolled into Bitterbridge. The conductor’s voice declared their arrival with transfers to the subway. “Did he say Bitterbridge?”

Sansa sniffed and sat up. “Yeah,” she croaked. “But Jon… he d-doesn’t know that I’m…”

“It’s Jon. He won’t care who you like, just that his baby sister’s hurting. You know him, the big dolt, he won’t push you with questions.”

“Short dolt, you mean.”

“Not all of us have legs for days, jerk.”

She got to her feet as the train came to a stop. As soon as she stepped onto the almost deserted platform, she saw him. Jon hurried over, curls a wild mess, a yellow-tinged bruise on his neck and jaw.

“Hey, what’s happened? Arya didn’t say—I mean, she said you needed someone, but—”

Sansa flung herself into her brother’s arms, sobbing and trembling. Her phone clattered to the platform. Jon caught her easily, helped her over to a bench. Somehow, he’d picked up her phone, too.

“Yeah, I’ve got her, Arya… Few days, sure. Just let me know what you tell them, whatever excuse.”

Jon hung up and hugged her again. “Shh, it’s alright. Come on, let’s get back to my place before the last train.”

Their subway journey was a jolting blur of tunnel lights and strange smells. By the time they reached Flea Bottom, fog had filled the neighborhoods between each of the city’s three great hills. Jon led her through the mist to his apartment, helped her over to his bed where he tucked a huge fuzzy gray blanket around her, then bustled around his miniscule kitchen making tea.

“Here, drink. It’ll warm you up, calm you down.”

Sansa accepted the steaming mug with shaky hands. Jon made sure she took several sips before returning to the kitchen. He clattered around for a few minutes, then took a seat beside her, a plate of toast in one hand and a freezer-burnt tub of ice cream in the other.

“Ice cream’s always good for break-ups.” He offered her the tub. “I’ll even help you eat it, talk shit about whatever loser broke your heart.”

A blubbering noise escaped her, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Runny snot ran down her chin. Her vision was blurry with tears still, but Jon didn’t seem to mind that she looked like a banshee smoking weed.

“D-did Arya tell you—”

“Nothing specific, no.” Jon bit off a crunchy corner of his toast. “Just that you’d had a bad break-up, needed someone. I know I’m not her or your mother, but I’m the closest. Well, besides Jeyne, but I guess she already left for—”

Her next sob was half a scream. Jon set his plate and the ice cream on the floor and pulled her into another tight hug. Sansa cried until her throat ached and her eyes burned dry. He rocked her until she ran out of tears.

“Jeyne—she—we were—”

She coughed as her hoarse voice cracked. Jon helped her drink her cold tea, then set the mug down, too. He leaned back to grab a box of tissues off his nightstand, let her compose herself before she spoke.

“We broke up,” Sansa whispered, staring at her knees. “J-Jeyne and I broke up. I’m… I’m gay. I like girls or whatever.”

Jon tucked her hair behind her ear. “Okay, thanks for telling me.”

Sansa looked up so fast she cracked her neck. “You don’t hate me?”

“Hate you? You are my baby sister,” Jon said, and he took her chin in his hand until she met his eyes. “I will never hate you, and certainly not for who you like or love. Come on, you’re shivering.”

He kissed her forehead, then pulled her shoes off and nudged her toward the pillows. Sansa curled up in the big fuzzy blanket he’d wrapped her in as Jon finished his toast and took their dishes to the kitchen. The melted ice cream went in the trash.

“You want anything?”

“Chocolate.”

Jon dug around in his cabinets for a few minutes, then rejoined her. He handed her a half-empty bag of chocolate chips.

“They’re probably gross and old,” he warned her as he lay down next to her.

Sansa popped one in her mouth and made a face. “Ugh, I _hate_ dark chocolate.”

“More for me then.” Jon shoved his hand in the bag and dropped a few into his mouth. “You want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know how to…” Sansa focused on the bag of chocolate chips in her hand. “Arya’s the only one I’ve ever had to talk to about… about Jeyne.”

“Let me guess, she was snooping.”

A shaky laugh caught in her throat. “She was. I was _so_ mad at her, and scared, too, but…”

Arya’s reaction had been almost exactly like Jon’s. She hadn’t cared that her sister was gay and secretly dating a wonderful girl. There’d been no blackmail or threats. Not like Sansa might have done when she’d been little more than a haughty thirteen-year-old. Understanding and acceptance had been the default for both Arya and Jon. But then, they’d always been the most alike of the six Stark kids. Despite the distance between Sansa and them as children, talking to Arya, and now Jon, was impossibly easy.

“Arya’s been great,” Sansa told him. “Hell, if she hadn’t been spying, we’d probably still be at each other’s throats.”

“I’m glad you had her.”

“Me, too.” She glanced over at him, taking in his easy posture, the trust and brotherly love in his eyes. Nothing had changed since she’d told him. Somehow, that put her more at ease than anything else could have. “And you now.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He popped a few more chocolates into his mouth. “And Robb, Margaery, Bran, Rickon, Pop, your mother. Uncle Benjen, too. They’ll love you no matter what, Sansa. That’s what families do.”

“Mother won’t.”

“Course she will. You might not remember the day you were born, but _I_ do. The way she looked at you… maybe it’ll take her some time, but she won’t turn you out. You don’t just stop loving someone the way she loves you.”

And maybe that was true. Or maybe her mother loved the idea of who she thought Sansa was, more than she would love the person she truly was. Sansa couldn’t be sure. Both Arya and Jon seemed convinced of her mother’s acceptance where she wasn’t. Her father had always been more solemn and subdued, calmer despite the air of burden that hung about him. Of the two, having an honest conversation had always been easiest with Father.

“So… how much boob is too much boob for you?”

“ _Jon!_ ”

He grinned as she laughed—a true deep belly laugh—that made her ribs hurt. For a long time, she couldn’t stop.

“What? We get to talk girls now _without_ Theon around,” Jon grumbled. “Robb always brought him and ruined it, he’s such a pervert.”

“Says the man who just asked me about _boobs_.”

Jon gave a huff of disbelief. “Oh, like you don’t like some cute, squishy boobs.”

“Does your _princess_ have nice tits?”

His face went redder than a tomato. “Dany’s—it’s not like—I mean, they’re— _shut up_.”

“Aw, are they that bad?”

Jon’s blush spread down his neck and he threw a handful of chocolate chips at her. “They’re… very nice.”

“Oh? Just ‘nice’?”

“Sansa.”

“Does she like girls, too? Maybe I’ll get to find out on my own since you won’t give me details.”

“Ha ha.” He pinched her arm, his face still flushed. “Dany’s… she’s wonderful. I thought I knew everything I wanted out of life, you know? And then she came along and everything I thought has just gotten better.”

Her insides shriveled at his words, at the soft, adoring sigh that escaped him. Jon noticed, much like Arya would have.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about that after the day you’ve had.”

“It’s fine. You deserve someone great, but I just miss her. So _much_. She’s always been with me, and now...”

A weak sniffle left her. Jon rolled closer and hugged her again. Sansa sank into his warmth, felt like she had Father right there with her, much like he’d scooped her up when she was small. Father hadn’t done that with her in a long time. With his health what it was, he probably never could again.

“It’s her loss,” Jon mumbled. “If she can’t see how sweet and charming and loving you are, then that’s on her.”

_She could though, that was never the problem_.

Sansa talked then, muttering against Jon’s shoulder for the better part of an hour. Explaining the first time she’d realized she liked Jeyne as more than just a best friend, to the fantasies of kissing her, to when they’d finally played Truth or Dare one night at a sleepover, just the two of them, and Sansa had dared Jeyne to kiss her. Ever since, they’d kept their romance a secret—until college. Jeyne had embraced the new queer community they’d found on campus. She’d cut her hair short, began trying a whole new wardrobe far removed from the frilly outfits they’d once shared. True happiness and relief had turned Jeyne from a shadowy sky to one flooded with starlight.

But Sansa hadn’t been able to follow.

“She hates me now.”

Jon kissed her forehead and pulled away. “I doubt that, sounds like you two love each other quite a bit. But she shouldn’t push you to come out if you aren’t ready. I get what she’s saying, and I think you do, too, but it’s your decision. Who you tell and when you tell and _how_ you tell. That’s your choice to make, not hers.”

Sansa sniffed. “What if I never… keeping it a secret wouldn’t be so bad, right?”

Jon’s solemn expression was so reminiscent of Father that Sansa had to look away. Every wrongdoing, every lie, every instance of trouble she’d made in childhood had been brought before that look. Etched in broodiness, but solemn and expectant and patient as those stupid gray eyes forced the honesty from her throat.

“Do you have to look so much like Father?”

Even then, Jon didn’t answer. He sat up, still watching her.

“Fine, keeping it secret is stupid. I _know_ that, okay? It’s just…”

“Scary,” Jon offered.

Petrifying was more accurate, but Sansa wanted the traces of Father gone from her brother’s face. Instead, she hooked onto the knottiest part of coming out since she’d first accepted herself.

“I don’t want it to be some big thing,” she told him. “Or a bunch of people all around gossiping about that gay Stark girl. Can’t I just be Sansa like I’ve always been?”

“Like you’ve always been?”

Amusement brightened Jon’s eyes, and all at once Father’s solemn sternness evaporated from his face. Jon had always been capable of happiness in a way Father hadn’t seemed able, but Sansa could never remember Jon smiling quite so wide as he did now.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

He gave her a mocking thoughtful look. “Hmm, I seem to recall quite vividly an obnoxious red-haired sister tattling left, right, and center on her favorite older brother and her ‘half-brother’. Then teasing her little sister to tears, and acting like a jerk at every opportunity.”

Heat crept up Sansa’s neck, flickering to her cheeks. “I didn’t mean—look, I was an awful little shit to _all_ of you—stop laughing!”

But Jon continued to chuckle as the embarrassed blush warmed her face. When he finally stopped, he was still smiling that rare, brilliant smile. That smile was the only trace Sansa ever saw of someone besides Father in Jon’s long face. Perhaps that was why her mother had always worked so hard to keep it hidden.

“I never did apologize for how I used to treat you.”

“Apologize?” Jon seemed baffled at the very idea. “We were kids, Sansa. I had my moments, too, and besides you didn’t know any better.”

_But Mother did._

“I should have. I do now,” Sansa reminded him. “And I did for a long time before now, too.”

“We were kids, Sansa.” Jon’s voice grew hard on the repetition, his gaze shifting away from hers. “We can’t be who we used to be, and I don’t think there’s such a thing as who you’ve always been. Not completely. You’re Sansa Stark, no matter what, but we all change and grow.”

But being Sansa Stark had not always been a good thing despite so many years of Mother saying otherwise. It hadn’t made transitioning to college easier, or made her more knowledgeable of the realities of so many voices lost beneath the aristocratic councils that ruled the seven provinces. For too long it hadn’t even made her kinder, not even to her own brother.

“Robb and Arya and Bran always saw through what Mother told us.”

“Not always.” Jon cleared his throat. His smile vanished. The yellow-tinged bruise on his jaw stretched tighter as he clenched his teeth. “Look, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does, Jon. The way she tried to convince all of us that you were beneath us or dangerous or weren’t trustworthy wasn’t right. How you came into this world isn’t a reflection of who you are.”

His expression became guarded and all at once the suspicions Robb and Arya had voiced since Father’s heart attack seemed confirmed.

“Robb’s right about what happened at the hospital, isn’t he? That she sent you away and tried to blame you.”

His jaw tightened until the muscles flinched. “She… asked me to leave.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Jon. Like you said, we aren’t kids anymore.”

“She…”

He only managed a jerky nod after that, but it was enough for Sansa’s insides to boil.

Almost three months had passed since their father’s sudden heart attack, right here in Jon’s humble little apartment. Ned had been rushed to the local hospital, Howland Reed at his side, where he was stabilized but critical. The rest of the Starks had been informed in bursts—first Jon as the closest relative by proximity, then Catelyn, who’d spread the news to her children only to find Jon had contacted them first. She’d left Arya in charge back at Winterfell with Ser Rodrik as backup, then flown to King’s Landing.

Sansa didn’t have all the details for the hectic hours between those calls and Catelyn finding Jon sitting vigil at Ned’s bedside, but she’d had the truth of the resulting encounter from Robb.

_“Howland was outside the door, coming back from getting coffee, and she wasn’t just blaming him like she does with everything else. He said… he said she told Jon it should have been him. That she_ wished _it was him.”_

“Father’s heart attack wasn’t your fault. Neither is whatever Mother said or tried to put on you. None of us would trade having you as a brother for anything in the world, you know that, don’t you?”

Another jerky nod, but Jon’s eyes were as guarded as his expression. Whatever her mother had said wasn’t going to be pried out of him tonight. At least not by her.

“Then why aren’t you coming home for the holidays?”

Jon startled, eyes widening just enough for Sansa to know she’d caught him, but just as quickly he had a reason ready.

“I’m spending it with Dany.”

This time, Sansa shifted in surprise.

“You’re spending Christmas with the _Queen_?”

“Future queen,” Jon offered, attempting to smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “She invited me for the week. Davos all but offered to carry me up to the Red Keep himself.”

Such an invitation seemed enormous, far more than Sansa could ever wrap her mind around. Nobody visited the royal family so personally. Jon and Daenerys were courting, of course—the entire realm gossiped of little else—but the whole process seemed so much faster than she’d expected. A whole week of royal life with the Queen and her children. The very thought made a cold, fearful numbness trickle through her. Once, she’d craved the pageantry and fawning of high-class society, but now, being so exposed seemed far too dangerous.

“We haven’t seen each other in months. Not since Dragonstone’s celebration,” Jon said. “Dating a princess is different from other people, so it won’t be just us or all fun, but I can’t wait to see her. Even if the Queen only wants a better chance to… assess my suitability.”

“You’re a wonderful man, Jon. If the Queen wants to see you like Mother does, then she can stuff herself.”

He snorted, but seemed to perk up a bit. “Suspect she might. Can’t have the future heirs being half-bastard, can we?”

Jon managed his joking smile, but the self-deprecation made Sansa’s insides burn both with anger and determination.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m drafting legislation to do away with bastard surnames,” Sansa told him. “And it’s going to pass and become law if it’s the only thing I ever do. You’re a Stark as much as any of us, and you always have been. Once it’s law, you’ll be Jon Stark by name, and if Mother and the Queen don’t like it, we’ll print out a thousand copies of the law and force feed it to them until they get over themselves.”

Jon mouthed wordlessly at her. His eyes were so earnest and suddenly child-like that Sansa regretted springing her plans on him. But a flicker of hope brightened the dark gray. Finally, he managed, “You’ve been spending too much time with Arya.”

Sansa shrugged. “That’s not such a bad thing, she’s learned a lot from you.”

Jon cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “It doesn’t matter much for me anymore, but—”

“Yes, it does. And not because you’re dating a royal princess. If Father could, I’m certain he’d give you a true name. Once Professor Tyrell and I start garnering support, we’ll stand a good chance.”

“Will’s helping you?”

Sansa shrugged. “He’s my advisor. I had him for a introductory course last semester on how bills are drafted into law. He was on board at once. Dorne’s passed something similar, for the mother’s surname, so I think we’ll start down there to rally interest and support.”

Jon swallowed and nodded. His hand squeezed her shoulder in gratitude despite not being able to meet her eyes.

“Come on, let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll… uh, crap.”

“What?”

Still awkward, Jon scratched his jaw, then winced as his fingers dug into his fading bruise.

“You can stay here, of course, that’s not a problem,” he said. “It’s only that I’m heading up to the Red Keep tomorrow. It’s the Knight’s Winter Ball, and Dany’s invited me. Actually—hang on.”

Jon fell back on his bed and scooped his phone off the nightstand. Sansa settled down beside him.

“I can go back to campus in the morning, Jon. It’s fine. I’ve still got to pack and—”

“Dany, hey, love.” Jon waved Sansa’s words off, phone pressed to his ear. “Got a quick question about the ball. No, nothing like that. It’s—well, my sister’s here—long story—but would it be okay if she came along? Just for the ball tomorrow night.”

Sansa gaped at him, was halfway to cutting Jon off when she heard Daenerys’s faint response through the phone.

“Great! No worries, Sansa’s much more ladylike than Arya is. But—” Jon tilted the phone away from his mouth and turned to her. “Do you have a dress or anything you can wear?”

Sansa shook her head. “Jon, really, it’s fine. I-I can go back to campus tomorrow and—”

Her sentence trailed away at the thought of that tiny empty room back in Violet Rose Hall. To the flowery scent of Jeyne’s perfume that always hung in the air, and the little strands of lights they’d decorated beneath her lifted bed to make the perfect pillowfort. Facing that made her chest ache fit to burst.

“Do you want to go tomorrow? Sansa?”

Jon’s hand squeezed her shoulder again.

“Yes, sure. I’d love to go.”

 

* * *

 

Morning came with the thunderous ringing of bells. Sansa woke groggy and disoriented as the Sept of Baelor rang out across the city, announcing winter’s official arrival. Today began a fortnight of celebrations across the country, from the solstice to Christmas to the New Year. Jon grunted and rolled out of bed.

“You can shower first, if you want.” He yawned, stretched, pushed his rumpled curls out of his eyes. “Then we can head out to your school, if you want, get whatever you need. Pack up. You can fly out of here when you’re ready to head home.”

Their day raced by. Showers and a quick breakfast at the bakery downstairs, then a jittery subway and train ride back to Golden Rose. Sansa bounced her legs the entire way, checked her phone so much she ended up dropping it and cracking the screen. But there were no new messages from Jeyne. No sign at all that her girlfriend cared to make contact.

_Ex-girlfriend._

When they arrived on campus, Jon seemed strangely excited to see the place. It was only as Sansa began pointing out what different buildings were that she recalled the reason why. As an illegitimate child, Jon’s future had been limited to service industries and the military. No bastard or wildling child had ever been accepted into a Westerosi university. Most schools even banned their applications.

“You okay?”

Jon eyed the building they’d stopped in front of, squinting in the mid-morning winter sunlight. Despite Jon’s bulky jacket she’d wrapped herself in, Sansa was shivering.

“T-this one’s me. Violet Rose Hall.”

She led the way into her dormitory, swiping her card for entry and signing her brother in at the front desk. The attendant gaped at Jon’s identification card. Sansa hurried him away before any questions could be asked. Most of her classmates didn’t know she was related to Princess Daenerys’s boyfriend, but it wouldn’t take much for them to start pestering her.

All the doors they passed were shut. Sansa paused outside hers, staring hard at the decorations of vibrant flowers and stars she and Jeyne had made by hand. Both of their names were still taped across the middle, outlined with tiny violet hearts.

Her hand clutched the doorknob, almost pushed the door wide, but a whiff of Jeyne’s perfume hit her as soon as she twisted the knob. Another shiver ran down her back. Sansa buried herself in her brother’s jacket and blinked away her tears.

“Do… I can go in, if you want,” Jon offered. “Just tell me what you need.”

“C-could you?” She sniffed and turned away. “Just some clothes, t-they’re in my hamper, already folded. Suitcase is inside my wardrobe.”

Jon headed into her room. She slid down the wall outside, listening to him shuffling around, the sharp snap of her wardrobe door closing. Fifteen minutes and several shouted questions later, Jon returned with her favorite stuffed wolf pillow, her packed suitcase and toiletries bag. Sansa climbed back to her feet, using her suitcase handle for support.

King’s Landing was windy and overcast when they returned. Jon popped into his apartment to collect his own bag for the night, then they hoofed it up Looms Street, ascending Aegon’s High hill into the gray light. Halfway up, the roadblocks started. Ser Barristan Selmy, however, awaited them, resplendent in his white armor just beside the dark stone barricade.

“Jon, it’s good to see you again. And Lady Stark, welcome.”

The old knight shook her brother’s hand, then bowed to her. Sansa’s courtesies were like a second skin. She curtsied as her mother had taught her.

“Thank you for having us, Ser Barristan. It’s a great honor to attend Her Grace’s annual ball.”

They were led to a car and driven the rest of the way to the Red Keep’s inner courtyard. Through security checks, both for themselves and their luggage, and Jon, despite everything, was all smiles. She’d never seen him so bright-eyed.

“I’m afraid it takes the better part of the day for Princess Daenerys to get ready,” Ser Barristan informed them as they crossed the bridge into Maegor’s holdfast. “Prince Rhaegar should be available, but Lady Sansa is, of course, invited to join the ladies as they prepare for the evening.”

Her heart pattered faster at the thought of being alone with the royal princess. And perhaps, the other highborn ladies in attendance. As a girl, she’d fantasized about such things, but now…

_Just stare at the floor and they won’t figure it out._

But she’d yet to master not glancing at other girls in the locker rooms at the gym or in school, curious and embarrassed all at once.

“That would be lovely,” Sansa heard herself say. “Jon, are you—”

“I’ll go up to Dany first, introduce you.” He offered her a reassuring hand-squeeze. “She’s wonderful,” he added in a whisper as Ser Barristan led the way. “Just relax, be yourself.”

_Sure, be my gay, I love staring at beautiful women self._

The royal wing was a strange mixture of the old and new. Dark, rough-hewn stone walls, but shining marble floors. Portraits of long ago princes and princesses, but a bustling landscape of modern-day King’s Landing. Guards stood in pairs at every door and at the end of each corridor. Ser Barristan led them to a door halfway down the second hall, knocked once, and a woman’s cheerful voice answered.

“Enter!”

Princess Daenerys’s chambers were a surprise. Airy and light, with slender, ceiling high windows and lilacs and creams and vibrant splashes of turquoise. The walls were still the same dark, rough stone, but Daenerys had done her best to brighten the space up. She stood across the room, amongst trays of snacks and makeup and heaps of fabrics draped over the two couches. As soon as she turned, the two women beside her were forgotten.

“Jon!”

The pair met in the middle of the room, grinning and laughing. Jon hoisted Daenerys off her feet, though he had to lean back quite a bit to do so. She was short—shorter than Sansa had expected. Arya would be eye level with her. As her brother and his love embraced and kissed and said hello, the two other women waved Sansa over.

She didn’t recognize the tall black woman, but the second was almost as familiar as Princess Daenerys’s face. Arianne Martell hooked her arm through Sansa’s, shook her already braided black hair off her shoulders and leaned closer.

“Let’s give the lovebirds a chance to fuck it out, shall we?”

Sansa gasped at the crudeness, glanced back toward Jon and Daenerys, but the pair were quite wrapped up in each other.

“I’m Arianne Martell.”

“Sansa Stark, it’s lovely to meet you. I followed the progress of your recent bill closely.”

“Did you?”

Arianne settled on one of the couches and scooped up a glass of wine. The way her gaze lingered made Sansa blush.

“Yes, I’ve been drafting something similar.” Sansa glanced at the second woman. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Missandei, one of Princess Daenerys’s advisors.”

Behind them, someone else knocked on the door. Before Daenerys could so much as pull herself away from Jon, the door opened. A small man hobbled in, rolling his eyes and leading a young blond woman around Sansa’s age.

“Please, don’t stop dry-humping on my account.”

“Nice to see you, too, Tyrion.” Jon kept a firm grip on Daenerys’s waist even as he nodded at the newcomer.

“You as well, Snow.” Tyrion offer a hand to the woman he was escorting. “Ladies, this is my niece, Myrcella. She’ll be joining your little… makeup party and what not for tonight.”

Proper introductions were made them. Sansa curtsied and shook hands, first with the other women, then with Princess Daenerys and Tyrion Lannister. Everyone seemed quite nice and friendly, but like Arianne, Myrcella’s eyes lingered on her. Not in the same teasing way, but Sansa didn’t miss the way those bright green eyes caught hers.

“Well, ladies, I think it’s best if we leave you to it,” Tyrion said, and he grabbed hold of Jon’s coat sleeve. “Come, Snow, I’m sure Prince Rhaegar could do with a companion capable of out-brooding him.”

“But—”

Just like that, Sansa was alone with Princess Daenerys and the other ladies. She swallowed her nerves, avoided Arianne’s teasing gaze, and let Princess Daenerys take her hand. All smiles, she led Sansa over to a rack of dresses hanging in the corner.

“Here, pick any one of these,” Daenerys told her. “Jon said you didn’t have anything, so I had a bunch of selections brought up. They’re probably too short, but some are Missandei’s size.”

She gestured to her willowy advisor, who smiled, too.

The entire scenario brought Sansa right back to her early teenage years. Dancing and laughing and raiding Jeyne’s closet on a Friday night. Then turning around and doing the same to her closet on Saturday. A shaky breath left her, but she thanked Daenerys, with a perfect curtsy that was cut short.

“You don’t need to curtsy and bow. We’re just a bunch of ladies getting ready for a fun evening, okay? Call be Daenerys.”

Her smile was infection, enough to bat away some of the sadness. Sansa flicked through the dresses, taking her time to appreciate each fabric and color and elegant design. It wasn’t long before she became aware of someone standing close by her shoulder.

Myrcella’s smile was tentative, but the little dimples it poked in her cheeks made Sansa’s stomach wriggle.

“Hi, sorry, I’ve got to pick a dress, too.”

Sansa slid to the side to let Myrcella join her. Together, they shifted through the two dozen dresses on display, carefully examining them as the other three worked on twisting Daenerys’s silver-gold hair into elaborate braids.

“So, is this your first time at the ball?”

Myrcella was still smiling. Her entire face lit up, skin a soft olive and eyes all the more green for it. Sansa’s cheeks grew warm.

“Yes, Jon’s too. My parents have never attended either.”

Myrcella paused on a pale pink dress. “My Uncle Kevan has, and Uncle Tyrion, of course, but this is my first time, too. I was too young before this year. Maybe we can… keep each other company a bit?”

Her smile was genuine enough, had an almost infection quality like Daenerys’s. Sansa tried to return it, but she was certain from the way Myrcella’s fell slightly that she didn’t succeed.

“That would be great,” Sansa said. “I’m sure Jon will be glued to Daenerys all evening, and… I was only invited last night.”

Myrcella pulled out the pale pink dress and held it up to herself. She gave Sansa a charming little wink. “It’s okay. I’m nervous, too.”

She was blushing at that smile. _Why am I blushing like some dumb schoolgirl?_

“What do you think of this one? Too pink?”

“N-no, it’s beautiful.”

Myrcella pulled a second gown from the rack. Like the pink one, it was soft, made of a sheer, floaty material, but in a pale blue.

“Try this one,” Myrcella suggested. “It’ll bring out your eyes.”

She left Sansa standing there, half-stunned, half-confused at the odd fluttering in her belly. When she turned around, it was to find Myrcella pulled her jeans and cardigan off and slipping into the pink gown.

Sansa ducked her head, intent on finding a private corner to change in, when Arianne’s voice called her over.

“Hey, Stark, what was that bill you mentioned?”

Arianne pulled her over to the couches, forced her to sit, then pushed a plate of tiny cheesecakes and lemon cakes into her hands. Daenerys and Missandei offered curious expressions. Myrcella joined a few moments later, twirling in her new gown.

“Oh, that’s such a lovely fit!”

“Girl, you’re going to break every boy’s heart tonight.”

They all laughed as Myrcella took a seat at Sansa’s side.

“All the girls’ hearts, I hope. I’ll leave the boys’ hearts for you,” Myrcella poked Arianne’s shoulder and scooped up a wedge of cheesecake.

“Y-you’re gay?”

Everyone froze at Sansa’s question. Arianne went stiff, Missandei tensed, and Daenerys’s smile slipped just a fraction.

Myrcella, however, chopped down on her cheesecake and nodded.

“Yup, girls are great. Boys…” She made a retching noise that earned a few laughs, entirely carefree about the whole thing. “So what’s this bill then?”

Being put on the spot hadn’t even been in her consideration for the day, but Sansa steeled herself and answered.

“I’ve started drafting legislation to ban the use of bastard surnames in Westeros. To let anyone who currently has one take their mother _or_ father’s name. It’s a long way off, probably. I’m still in school, but…”

“You want to give everyone a true name?”

Myrcella gazed at her for a long time. Arianne, too, eyed her critically.

“Yes, I’ve been working on it with Professor Tyrell’s help. Willas Tyrell, he’s my advisor. He and Jon went to school together. Jon’s… well, he’s kind of my inspiration for it. For Willas, too.”

Daenerys seemed ecstatic at the idea. “That’s _wonderful_. Arianne passed one for the mother’s name in Dorne, with my brother’s support. You’d have his and mine, once the bill’s ready. Will your Father be presenting it?”

“I-I don’t know.” Sansa flushed under all their questions. “He’s still healing from his heart attack and…”

Would Father promote it, if she asked? Or would she have to wait however many years until he retired and she was allowed to take the Stark seat on the Northern Council?

“It’s still in the early stages,” Sansa finished lamely. She bowed her head, twisted her hands in her lap. “I only told Jon about it yesterday.”

“You should do it,” Myrcella said. “My brother would love it. Tommen _hates_ being a Hill. I was until I moved down to Dorne last year. Now I’m a Lannister like our mother was.”

Her touch was gentle when Myrcella reached over and squeezed Sansa’s hand. Their eyes met again, and another tingle raced through her.

_She knows._

Yet, Myrcella’s flirty little wink and lingering handhold didn’t terrify Sansa quite like she expected it would. Not like she was used to experiencing.

“I’ll give you my number and email,” Arianne decided, eyeing their joined hands. “Willas helped with some of the legalese for the Dornish bill, but the rest of these stuffy northern provinces could do with a good stirring up. I’m in.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a flurry of talk and laughter and legal discussions. Sansa ate more lemon cakes than she’d ever had in her life as she helped with hair braiding and makeup and selecting the best shoes and jewelry for each of their dresses. When she finally changed from her normal clothes into her baby blue gown, she was flushed and strangely happy. Her phone chimed as she set it in her makeup bag for the night. At once an incoming call from Jeyne popped up on the screen. For a moment, she almost accepted it.

“Sansa, it’s almost time,” Daenerys said. “We’re going to meet Jon and my brother down the hall.”

Myrcella hopped about, slipping her feet into her glittering heels. Sansa shut off her phone and offered her arm to help the other woman balance.

“You ready?”

“Almost.” Myrcella hooked a dangling pearl earring into her ear, then eyed Sansa’s appearance until her face grew warm. “Here.”

Her fingers brushed a thick strand of Sansa’s hair forward, draping it over her bare shoulder.

When their eyes met, Myrcella blushed, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this time!
> 
> As you have probably noticed with these last two chapters, we're laying some groundwork for things to come -wiggles fingers ominously-
> 
> Next up is, uh. Um. -checks forearm- -forearm is just skin and hair- -panics- 
> 
> Rhaella? Jon? Ghost?
> 
> It's one of those three, but you'll find out Tuesday, if the writing goes according to plan!
> 
> Cheers!


	18. JON VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who guessed Jon was next? You win!
> 
> So, it's the Knight's Winter Ball this go around. Some Jon and Dany, a flash of Rhaegar, a moment with Jon and Rhaella having a... conversation. Then some naked butts, cause those are very nice.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

“My prince, Jon Snow has arrived.”

Tyrion’s taunting little smirk did nothing to lessen Jon’s trepidation. He wouldn’t put it past Tyrion to give Prince Rhaegar a detailed accounting of his less than chaste reunion with Dany. Just another concern on top of his brotherly worries. Inviting Sansa along for the ball had seemed a fantastic way to cheer her up last night. Now, however, leaving her with people she didn’t know—friendly as Dany and Missandei were—made him nervous. He’d never met the other two woman, knew next to nothing about Arianne Martell beyond wild gossip and rumors. Worse, if something went wrong, Sansa’s actions would reflect on him. On their father and the rest of the Starks, too. For a royal ball, Sansa was perhaps the best candidate among his siblings after Robb, but with her current state…

_She’s stronger than she looks. Sansa can handle this, maybe better than I can._

“Jon, welcome. I wasn’t expecting you so soon. ”

Prince Rhaegar set his heavy book aside and pulled his reading glasses off as they shook hands. They’d not seen each other since the Unification Day celebration on Dragonstone. He looked as sternly morose as he had three months ago, his silver-gold hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Unlike Dany’s chambers, Rhaegar had done nothing to brightened the rough-hewn stone or the dark oak furnishings. It looked very much like the old office his father kept in Winterfell. Roomy, dark, a bit messy, but comfortable as though several centuries worth of people had worn the place in.

“Please, sit. Have some wine before Tyrion drinks everything.”

At Prince Rhaegar’s words, Ser Arthur appeared from the shadowy corner and snatched the chalice from Tyrion’s hand.

“That’s meant for the three of you to _share_ , Lannister.”

Tyrion gave a disbelieving huff, but let the knight pour a reasonable amount into his glass. Ser Arthur poured a second glass and handed it to Jon as he sat down.

“Thanks.” As he sipped the blood red wine, Jon examined the room further. No gaggle of women nor trays upon trays of makeup and snacks. Rows and rows of bookshelves lined every wall, their shelves bowing from the weight of so many thick volumes. The only sign of the impending festivities was a velvet red suit hung on the wardrobe door. “A lot calmer in here.”

Despite the comfortable silence, however, Jon would rather spend the next few hours with Dany and the other women. Just holding her for a few minutes, after months away, had made his legs shake. From the soft glossy brush of her hair on his cheek to the warm scent of her skin, he’d never felt more gladly helpless and willing to linger at someone’s side. To be near her again was almost overwhelming.

And based on Tyrion’s endless smirking, he’d noticed. His lover’s advisor said nothing. He just swilled his wine and hummed, but his mismatched eyes twinkled in the lamplight.

“Yes, Prince Rhaegar prefers a pre-ball brood instead of a gaggle of visitors. Granted, you aren’t much a conversationalist either, are you, Snow?”

“I do not _brood_ ,” Rhaegar said sharply. “I read. I daresay you’re rather familiar with the concept since you still have my first volume of the _Blackfyre Rebellions_.”

“Do I?” Tyrion appeared rather unconcerned by the accusation. “Do you read at all, Snow?”

Jon shrugged. “Not much since I left school. Don’t have the time anymore with work.”

“Hmm, I suppose bringing a book into a burning building _would_ be foolish.”

“Dany read a few to me,” Jon offered. “Over the phone, before bed, while she was away.”

“A bedtime _story_ from our darling princess, is it? I’d have thought you two would rather—”

“Tyrion, leave it.” Rhaegar glared at him, then turned back to Jon. As they had on Dragonstone, Rhaegar’s eyes roved his face with a strange sort of familiarity. “How’s your father faring?”

Jon’s insides shriveled. He hadn’t seen his father in person since his first brief hospital visit, when Lady Stark had all but thrown him from the room. Like nearly all of their private encounters, her words haunted him, came echoing up like a gong sounding from Winterfell’s crypts.

_“I’ve dreamed about this,” Catelyn whispered, mesmerized by Ned’s unconscious form despite her tears. “Of you two in a room just like this, Jon.”_

_“You’ve been worried that he would get sick? But Father’s always seemed so_ — _”_

_“It was you in that bed, never Ned. Not my husband, only his mistake. It should be you. I wished it was you, over and over.”_

It was one of the rare times that Catelyn Stark had considered him worthy of his first name. He should have left then. Read that always ominous sign for what it was and gone to find Howland. Instead he’d been rooted to the spot as she said her fill, too tangled in fear and grief to recognize her loathing. Howland had interrupted the scathing words, but Jon hadn’t returned. Not when Robb and Margaery arrived, not for the open heart surgery, and not once had he made the trip to Winterfell since Ned’s release.

“He’s doing well,” Jon told them, trying to unclench his jaw. “Still not one hundred percent, but he’s back at home and resting now.”

_With Ghost at his side._

It wasn’t often that Jon dreamt through his wolf’s eyes anymore, not like he had for his years at the Wall and at war. At least once a week since Ned’s heart attack, he found his slumbering consciousness connecting with his wolf. Seeing hazy snatches of Winterfell’s grand hearth, the modernized kitchen, the bed that had been set up in Father’s office until he could handle the stairs on his own, listening to the bruised thud of Ned’s heart as it strengthened once more.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Rhaegar said. “When we heard, I feared the worst. Hearts are such delicate, intricate organs.”

Conversation turned to safer topics as they whiled away the next two hours. Jon tried to focus, but his mind drifted endlessly to Dany only a corridor away. To the plump softness of her lips, the way she’d smiled as he’d peppered her nose and cheeks with kisses, the subtle press and drag of her thigh against—

“Snow, stop daydreaming and get dressed.”

Tyrion went so far as to smack him on the ear. Jon clambered to his feet and joined the men in changing into their suits for the evening. Like Tyrion, Jon had opted for a simple black. His tie, however, was a gift from Dany to match her dress: lilac and silky.

They did a quick check of their beards and hair, and Jon covered the remains of his fading bruise from a wild rescue he’d conducted last week. Their shining shoes clicked loudly as they headed back through the royal wing to the ground floor of Maegor’s holdfast. The towering, dragon-carved clock beside the marble staircase chimed the top of the hour. Between the six repetitive chimes, a dragon roared.

“Should be just a few minutes, then we’ll join up with the Queen to enter the ballroom.”

Jon heard the women before he saw them. Missandei and Arianne Martell came first, both in wispy, cloud-like dresses of deep crimson and sunset orange. They smiled and accepted a hand down the last few stairs from Rhaegar and Tyrion.

“You both look divine,” Rhaegar said. He kissed each of their hands as Myrcella hurried down the stairs next. She moved so fast, Jon half-thought she’d simply glided down to them. “Lady Myrcella, you’re a vision.”

The prince’s charm was in full-force. Jon gave each of them a tight-lipped smile and nod as he tried to ignore the sharp way Arianne watched him. Sansa came next, like a floating pale blue cloud. Jon escorted her the last few steps and smiled.

“I see they found you a dress.”

“Myrcella picked it out,” Sansa told him, though something about her smile still seemed forced. Her eyes weren’t quite as bright as Jon was used to seeing them. “Wait until you see Daenerys,” she muttered in his ear. “Might be a bit too much _boob_ for you in present company.”

A second later Dany was in sight, Ser Barristan doing his best to blend into the background. Considering how stunning she was, the old knight had an easy time of it. Dany descended the stairs with a grace and elegance the other ladies had lacked. Instead of waiting, Jon met her a third of the way up the grand staircase. He was careful with his steps, did his best not to snag her wide skirts.

“You look… wow.”

Dany smiled at him. Her silver tiara glittered from amongst her elaborate crown of silver-gold braids. All seven joined together into a larger one draped casually over her right shoulder.

She was radiant. Lilac chiffon hung loose on her torso, left her arms bare and formed a tapered, wide neckline from her shoulders to the arch of her ribcage. A surge of arousal ran through him at the sight of so much skin. He could just see the soft curves of her breasts on either side of the opening, the dress cinched tight at the waist by a belt of gleaming silver medallions. On closer inspection, he found the center one held the Targaryen sigil, the left the fiery sun of Dorne and the right his father’s snarling direwolf. The rest, he assumed represented the remaining great houses. Below the medallions, her dress fanned out symmetrical in folds of lilac that deepened to violet. White patterns of snowflakes and flames started at the hem and crept upward.

He couldn’t wait to rip every delicate inch of it off her.

“You look rather handsome yourself,” Dany told him. She straightened his tie and kissed him once, twice, on the lips. Then she offered her hand. “We mustn’t be late, love. You can strip me naked later.”

“I wouldn’t do that _here_.” His face went hot as he took her hand and they joined the rest of their party at the base of the staircase.

“I know that promising look in your eyes, Jon Snow,” Dany whispered. She winked at him, her smile widening. “And I’ll be _very_ disappointed if I can just hang this dress up tomorrow like I haven’t been ravaged by you in it.”

She left him with those images, her fingers gently toying with his. Lacing through his calloused fingers, then brushing his knuckles and palm. Jon summoned all of his restraint and focused on Prince Rhaegar’s directions for their entrance.

Within minutes, they’d left the royal wing behind and adjourned in a small chamber off the ballroom. Queen Rhaella awaited them. Her dress was a deep red and very conservative. A crown wrought of gold and rubies sat stiffly on her head. When she caught sight of her children, the Queen’s eyes lingered on every fold of fabric, every crease and stitch. Rhaegar’s velvet suit was given an easy pass, but Daenerys’s dress made the Queen look more unforgiving than usual.

“A lovely color to bring out your eyes, but this cut is far too deep, Daenerys.” Queen Rhaella sighed, gave each side of Daenerys’s low-cut neckline a firm tug in an attempt to cover her chest. “I suppose it’s too late to change now. They may wait for our entrance, but your speech cannot be pushed back.”

A sharp prickle of anger ran through Jon. He tightened his hold on Dany’s hand and gave her an assuring squeeze. Even so, he felt the tension spike in her grip at her mother’s scrutiny. The uptick in her pulse where his thumb pressed to the inside of her wrist; the way her smile faltered, a little downward turn at each corner. He’d met the Queen just once before, but he’d heard more and more of her criticisms from Dany over the last few months.

Queen Rhaella turned her gaze onto him next. His simple black suit seemed to pass her inspection, even the little stairs-folded lilac striped pocket square. He’d spent the better part of an afternoon looking up how to fold the damn thing. Her eyes lingered on the patch of concealer hiding the remains of his bruise instead. She said nothing, but she didn’t need to speak. Her eyes were dismissive, so reminiscence of Lady Catelyn it took everything he had to stop himself from flinching.

“Ser Oswell, it’s time.”

Without another word, the Queen turned away and passed through the double doors into the grand ballroom. Both Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur held the doors, Ser Barristan guarding the royal party’s backs. Dany hooked her right arm through his left. A slight tremble ran through her despite her radiant smile. Her gaze stayed on her mother’s back as they entered the ballroom to a smattering of curtsying and bowing. Jon didn’t miss the looks of disdain several lords cast him, nor those who leaned their heads together and whispered.

“Welcome, my lords and ladies, to our fifteenth annual Knight’s Winter Ball.”

He turned his focus away from the Queen’s speech and onto Dany. It was custom for one of the royal family member’s to begin the first dance of the ball. Since Dany was the only one with a partner, and was being entrusted with more responsibility by her mother and brother, this task had fallen to them.

The orchestra across the hall began to play. All at once, the group they’d entered with faded toward the crowd. They were alone together, in the center of the ballroom. A nervous shiver raced through him, but Jon bowed to Dany, then kissed her offered hand. He’d never danced in anything close to this setting. As a boy, Father had forced him to learn alongside Robb and Theon, but he’d never danced at any of the weddings or events they’d attended. Instead, he’d lingered on the fringes in sullen silence.

Tonight, however, Jon called on every distance, hazy lesson from his childhood. On the steps he’d practiced in his loft space whenever he had a free moment these last few months. Dany’s skirts twirled as they danced, their hands joined, her left hand soothing and warm on his shoulder. She was a princess in every way. Smiling pleasantly, spinning and stepping like she’d been born for it. Once the crowd had filtered onto the floor, however, Dany pressed deeper into him, placed both arms around his neck.

“Well, you could never be a professional, but your rhythm isn’t revolting.”

Jon pinched her hip. “Revolting? And here I was thinking you’d grown fond of me.”

“Fond? Hmm, I don’t know if that’s the correct word, but…” Dany swayed closer until the fronts of their bodies were touching. “I seem to recall you having a great deal of control over your hips on Dragonstone. Nice and loose, _driving._ ”

As her fingers threaded into the curls at the base of his neck, Jon shut his eyes. Hot, desperate need surged through him, so wild and fast he considered having her right there. Consequences be damned.

Dany snickered. “Jon, put _that_ away.”

He was sweating, breathing hard, his cock pressing against the front of his pants right against her belly. Dany continued to stroke the soft hairs on the back of his neck, muttering soothing words until he calmed.

“You’d think two months of perfecting phone sex would have been enough.”

“My own hand doesn’t come close to your mouth or… well.” Dany’s violet eyes flickered down between them. “Or maybe we’re both just young and endlessly horny.”

Jon laughed and held her closer until Dany’s head was resting on his chest. They talked and swayed for the first five songs, catching up on all the little things they’d missed out on in their months apart. Jokes from his siblings’ group chat, Rhaegar slipping at the Highgarden welcoming feast and ending up with his face in his plate. All the while, Dany’s fingers rubbed his neck. She didn’t seem capable of not touching him anymore than he was her.

“How’s your mother been? Since you got back?”

Dany shrugged and stayed quiet until the song ended. Her lack of answer told him too much—of the coldness that emanated from the Queen, her seeming inability to convey any affection for her daughter. Another rush of anger hit Jon, flooding out the swirls of lust.

“Sometimes,” Dany said, “she’ll say something that sounds like praise, then halfway through the sentence it’s like she’s jamming nails into me. Like with this dress—”

“It’s beautiful. Almost as much as your smile, but I doubt anything can compare to that.”

Dany gave him a watery grin that did nothing to hide the troubled gleam in her eyes.

“She shouldn’t make you feel that way,” Jon insisted. He’d said it half a hundred times since September. “Parents should be there for their kids, to raise them up, not tear them down.”

“Its… fine. I’m fine. It’s nothing new, Jon.” Dany shook away his protests. “I barely spend any time with her, so I don’t have to deal with it often.”

“That’s no excuse.”

The slow song ended and a jaunty, rapid beat replaced it. Dany pecked his cheek and stepped away.

“Let’s get some drinks. I need to rest before…”

A nervous flutter took over Dany’s features. Her speech was soon, at the top of the ballroom’s curved staircases where a small podium had been set up. She’d never spoken at a royal affair before, but this year, the Queen had decreed her ready for the responsibility of addressing the lords and ladies on the royal family’s agenda for the coming year.

They took a break from dancing then, slipping away amongst the tables and waiters taking meal orders for the impending dinner break. Across the room, Jon could just see the top of Sansa’s red hair gleaming in the candlelight. Arianne and Myrcella were with her, along with Willas Tyrell. Whatever they were discussing (and Jon had a shrewd idea of what the topic was) they seemed very enthusiastic. All around the grand ballroom, groups of threes and fours sat or stood in conversation.

“Jon, here.”

Dany pressed a flute of champagne into his hand. They clinked their glasses and drank the Queen’s health, though Dany’s voice was rather too formal when she said it. As the end of the first hour neared, Dany’s hand began to sweat in his. She smiled at the appropriate parts of each conversation they had, greeted lords and ladies flawlessly, but Jon could see her pupils growing larger, the jittery flex of the tendons in her neck.

As Lord Arryn left them, Jon ducked his head toward her ear.

“Are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yes, f-fine.”

Jon checked his watch and ignored the lie. He led her away from the tables, toward the side door they’d entered through. Dany resisted for a moment, muttering about missing her upcoming speech, but just saying the words made her voice shake. The guards opened the door without question at the sight of her. Together, they passed into the small chamber off the ballroom. It wasn’t much bigger than his apartment—enough space for a small window, two stiff-looking sofas, and a marble bust of an old Targaryen king.

Dany bit her lip once the doors had shut again.

“Hey, relax, I know you’re nervous,” Jon said as he took both of her hands in his and rubbed her knuckles with his thumbs, “but you’ve been practicing this for over a month. And writing it with Missandei for two! You’re going to kill this, Dany.”

“What if I don’t? What if… how am I supposed to introduce the royal family’s plans and hopes for the next year when half the people in there will despise the very _mention_ of the Free Folk?”

They’d talked that point over twice since September, but had always ended with the same conclusion. Much like those same lords and ladies disliked her dating Jon, they’d protest her choice of a focus issue. Uplifting the lowest was so rarely a priority for the elite.

“You will.” Jon cupped her face, stroked her cheeks. “Just imagine each word as a pie in their smug faces, okay? Sure, they’ll fight it. They fight every change and thing that makes them uncomfortable, but you’ll put them right. Someone has to show them how to help people. Who better than you?”

She nodded a few times, swiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Rhaegar and me and you. We’ll show them a better way—a better world.”

The door opened a crack and Tyrion stepped inside. He eyed them with something between annoyance and relief.

“Princess, your speech is about to start.”

“Right, of course.” Dany took a deep breath. “My makeup is still good?”

“As stunning as you are.”

She kissed him hard, nipped his bottom lip and gave it a gentle tug as she pulled away.

“Thanks, love. I’ll—”

“Daenerys, come.”

They both turned to find Queen Rhaella standing in the doorway, Ser Oswell a step behind her. Jon swallowed at the cold fury on her face and the way Dany tried to straighten her posture and somehow managed to wilt at the same time.

“You will _not_ miss your speech so that you can sneak off for a—” The Queen let out a harsh breath as she eyed Jon sharply. “Go, Daenerys, before you’re late.”

Dany squeezed his hand and led him to the door, but Queen Rhaella stopped them. She waved a finger at Jon, but the direction was quite plain.

“Mother, Jon and I—he was only—”

“Go.”

Queen Rhaella didn’t so much as look in Dany’s direction as her daughter exited the chamber. No words of comfort or luck. Not a single affirmation of her confidence in her daughter’s abilities. She kept her steely gaze on him long after the door snapped shut. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Jon was glad to see Tyrion had remained.

“Your Grace, we should be in attendance for—”

“Be silent.”

Tyrion bit his lip and stared at the ground. Jon kept his own eyes respectfully downcast, but his stomach roiled with anger.

“You’ve convinced a great deal of our staff to trust you implicitly in a very short time, Jon Snow. From Ser Barristan to Lord Tyrion, each one has nothing but positive anecdotes to tell, my own son included. And Daenerys...” Queen Rhaella inhaled sharply. “Well, you hardly need me to explain how my daughter sees you.”

Jon clutched his hands behind his back, his temper still flaring, a great sense of foreboding closing in around him. Every inflection in her voice reminded him of Lady Stark. Her tone was like a drill boring into him, spewing up every hateful word and look from his childhood. He watched Tyrion’s shoes shift uncomfortably on the marble floor and bit his tongue.

“However, Daenerys’s _fondness_ for you does not extend to me. Her past decisions where men are concerned do not aide your image either,” she continued. “You walk on eggshells here simply by the name you bare, and yet, you see fit to lure Daenerys into this room, with half the _country_ watching—”

“I didn’t _lure_ her anywhere,” Jon said before he could stop himself. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, pounding harder as his anger grew. “She was nervous, Your Grace. I only wanted to calm her before her speech.”

He could feel the Queen’s eyes on him as if someone was slapping every part of him with hot coals. She began to pace, only a few feet away, but always with her skirts in his view.

“There are better ways to care for Daenerys than by secreting her into a secluded—”

“Care for Dany? What do you know of such things with the way you belittle her every second she’s in the same room as you?”

Tyrion’s whole body jerked. He took a step toward Jon like he was about to tackle and gag him, but Jon couldn’t keep his silence any longer. His temper had always been quick and dangerous. Years at the Wall and then at war had taught him how to tame it, to keep himself in check for his own sake and of those around him. But he wouldn’t stand for a mother treating her own daughter in a way so reminiscent of Lady Catelyn’s actions toward himself. Especially when that daughter was Dany.

Queen Rhaella’s skirts frozen a foot to his left.

“Do not presume to know what is best for my daughter, Jon Snow. I am her _mother_ and you—”

“Then act like it.”

He was seething as he looked up and met her eyes. She seemed startled, her pale eyes narrowing.

“Excuse me?”

“No.”

“Jon, don’t—”

Tyrion scrambled to grab his arm, but Jon pulled himself away, his eyes fixed on the Queen.

“No, Tyrion, I’m not staying silent while she—when she talks—” He stumbled over his words in his fury. “Daenerys isn’t perfect. Nobody is. Not me or your son or _you_. And I get that she’s messed up, maybe a lot more than her brother ever did at her age, but that doesn’t make it okay for you to treat her the way you do. To belittle her all the time. To make her doubt herself or make her wonder if you even love her at all—if you’re capable of anything besides cold indifference. And maybe you aren’t. Maybe you’re nothing more than an empty shelf we all call Queen. But Dany deserves better than that. She deserves a mother that adores her, that sees her as a person and not the next stage of some stumbling dynasty.”

“You have no idea the things I have done to keep my daughter _safe_ and—”

“No, you’re right, I don’t. There’s no damn reason for me to know, but Dany should. If you expect her to rule someday, to be a good queen and make sure the Targaryen legacy lives on, she should know more than your criticisms. And I…” his voice faltered. “I never knew my mother. I’ll never know what it’s like to have a mother who loves you unconditionally and adores you and helps you, but I know what it looks like. Lady Stark might despise every bit of me, but I’ve spent my whole life seeing how she looks at my brothers and sisters. And to think that Dany didn’t have that from you—that you can act toward her the way my stepmother does to me…”

His voice cracked and some of his temper ebbed away. Jon blinked and found the Queen’s sharp eyes were slits. She looked quite ready to spit poison on him, from his words or his daring to meet her eyes or a combination of the two.

_Oh fuck._

He’d met the Queen’s eyes, him a simple bastard of the North. He’d criticized her, shouted at her, objected to her decisions to her face. Tyrion watched him with a fearful sort of awe, but a great deal of worry too.

Jon ducked his head, and mumbled a very meek, “Your Grace.”

Several moments ticked by in time with the pounding of his racing heart. Jon swallowed down the horrified shiver fighting up his chest. Nobody spoke. Not Ser Oswell in his imposing white armor, nor Tyrion, who seemed to be at a loss for words. From the other side of the shut door, Jon heard muffled applause and the faint sound of Dany’s voice. She was already live, her speech the only portion of the ball that would be televised across the country.

Then the Queen moved. Her heels clicked like bullets on the marble, each slow, measured step brought her toward him. She stopped so close he could feel the heat of her.

Jon gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, ready for the blow.

“You’re a bold man, Jon Snow.” Her hand took his chin and raised it until he opened his eyes and met her gaze. “But if you _ever_ address me in such a way again, you will find yourself serving at Castle Black for the remainder of your life. Do we have an understanding?”

Her chastisement was less than he deserved, but Jon cleared his throat and nodded. As he did, he caught a flicker in her eyes, a slight unease tinged with guilt.

“Yes, Your Grace, I spoke out of turn. My apologies.”

“Tyrion, escort our guest back to the ballroom.”

He did so without a word, simply grabbed the sleeve of Jon’s jacket and pulled him toward the door. They opened it to the strong, enchanting sounds of Dany’s voice magnified by a microphone and another collective pause as the gathering applauded.

“And Jon?”

The Queen’s voice seemed softer as he turned back toward her.

“Before you and Daenerys retire for the night, tell her I’d like to have breakfast with her tomorrow morning.”

_To forbid her from ever seeing me again._

Jon nodded and offered a short bow. “I will, Your Grace.”

The door snapped shut behind them. Tyrion let out a loud breath as another round of applause filled the room.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll grant you that.”

Jon flushed. “I didn’t mean to—the way she speaks to Dany… I just lost my temper.”

A wave of embarrassment hit him hard then, yet he didn’t regret his words. Dany may someday speak her own mind to her mother, but in the meantime, Jon didn’t plan on sitting quietly by and watching his love get hurt.

Tyrion actually laughed, though it was a nervous, relieved sort of sound. “Well, I suppose it’s done some good. The Queen was unsure of you before, but I have no doubts she likes you now.”

“Likes me?” Jon said, mystified. “After I—she’ll probably forbid Dany from ever seeing me again.”

“You think so?” Tyrion hummed and led Jon to their designated table toward the center and back of the room. “If she were to do that, you wouldn’t have been allowed back into this room, Snow. She’d have tossed you from the Red Keep without a thought.”

The Queen’s prerogative, but now that Tyrion had said it, Jon had to wonder. She’d threatened to send him away if he spoke that way to her again, but she hadn’t corrected him. Not entirely.

“I daresay, I’m less _tactless_ when I speak my mind to our Queen,” Tyrion said as Dany’s speech came to an end. They stood with the rest of the crowd to applaud her. “But she doesn’t keep me around because I mindlessly follow orders. Rulers need advisors who are not afraid to be truthful, especially the hard truths. The same might be said for a future son-in-law.”

_Son-in-law._

Jon clapped until his hands hurt, watched Dany sweep toward their table in a wave of lilac chiffon, wearing a relieved, dazzling smile. He kissed her cheek and congratulated her, pulled her chair out and pushed it back in. Of course, he and Dany had discussed marriage. For anyone else, the idea of such a conversation so early would have been horrifying, but not with a princess. Her path in life was set. Marriage would inevitably be a part of that. Yet, outside of their own private conversations, nobody else in the royal family’s inner circle had mentioned the possibility.

They ate and talked for all seven courses. Jon spotted Sansa at a table to their left, seated with several young lords and ladies her own age, Myrcella Lannister among them. At the front table, however, Prince Rhaegar and Queen Rhaella were joined by a number of high lords, including Lord Arryn, Lord Tyrell, and Lord Tully. Whether the Queen was still in a towering fury about him or not, she gave no obvious signs of it.

As trays of desserts were rolled in, and a slice of raspberry cheesecake was placed before him, Dany leaned closer.

“I hope she didn’t ream you after I left.”

Tyrion cracked the top of his crème brûlée, but his eyes shifted toward them. Jon swallowed his first delicious bite and steeled himself.

“No. Not any more than I deserved after I… lost my temper with her.”

Dany froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flickered to her mother across the ballroom, then back to him. “You… lost your temper?”

Jon took another bite and nodded. He glanced around to see if anyone nearby was eavesdropping, but they were all digging into their desserts.

“The way she talked to you, I couldn’t—gods, your own _mother_ shouldn’t treat you the way my stepmother treats me. So I… gave her my opinion about it.”

Her expression tightened. For the remainder of their meal, Dany stayed quiet. She danced with him twice over the last few hours, but spent most of her time mingling and dancing with the high lords in attendance. By the end of the night, she seemed to have arrived at a decision, but she waited until they’d left the ballroom and returned to her chambers in Maegor’s holdfast.

“Jon, I’m grateful that you would speak up in my favor.”

“But you’re angry with me,” Jon finished. He took his admittance into her chambers for the night as a good sign, but he’d crossed a line earlier. With the Queen, and with Dany’s relationship with her, too. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me, I’m sorry. It’s not my place, I know that. But listening to someone belittle you like she does—when its your mother and not some random newscaster or lord…”

“I know,” Dany said softly. She sat on the end of her bed and unhooked her earrings and removed her tiara. “And I’m not angry for what you said, but that you said it to her. Speaking to the Queen like that could lead to more than being verbally reprimanded. She could forbid me from seeing you, ban you from the Red Keep or from the _city_. She could—”

“Send me to the Wall for the rest of my life?”

Dany faltered. “S-she said that?”

“Said if I ever spoke to her like that again she would,” Jon told her. He tugged his tie loose and set it on her solar table. “Called me bold, too. Tyrion said… I’m sure he’s wrong, but he thinks she likes me for speaking my mind to her.”

A snort greeted his words. “Tyrion would think a tomcat likes him if it claws his face to shreds. He’s always in his cups, I swear. But Mother… did she said anything else?”

“She told me to tell her she wants to have breakfast with you in the morning.”

Dany frowned. “How did she phrase it? An order or a demand?”

“Uh, I mean, it was an order for me, but I think it was more of a request for you. Her voice was different when she said it.”

She only nodded and began to undo her hair, fiddling with her braids and all of the pins she pulled free. Jon sighed and continued to undress. He could feel her uncertainty and anxiety from across the room as he removed his shoes and jacket. When he looked over at her, her hair was bent in silly kinks from being styled up half the day.

“Here, let me help.”

Jon kneeled down before her, and unbuckled the strap of her heel. He slid it off and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her ankle, then did the same for the other foot.

“Are you still interested in me ravaging you in this dress?”

Dany peered down at him and the corner of her mouth curled upward. “I don’t know, Jon Snow. Surely you have more appealing kisses than simple ones on my ankles?”

He laughed and pecked the top of her left foot. “How’s that?”

“Less arousing than a day at the Dragonpit.”

“Ouch.” He faked a wounded look and nudged her skirts up her calf. He scraped his teeth up over the soft skin, from her ankle to the curve of muscle under her knee. A twitch ran down her leg and he caught her foot and peppered kisses up the same path. “Better?”

“Hmm, I can’t be sure with only the one leg.”

He smiled as he nibbled her right calf, dragged his tongue over her shin. Dany leaned back on her bed and sighed. Jon took his time then, tracing his tongue up her thighs, lining the inside of each with lingering, sucking kisses that left plush little bruises in his wake. By the time he’d hoisted all of her skirts aside, he was dizzy with his own arousal and the tart scent of hers. When he finally revealed her cunt, however, Jon gave a grunt of surprise.

“See something you like, Jon Snow?”

He swore so badly, Jon had to sit back and reforge some semblance of control over himself. Then he returned to her inner thighs and the smooth, hairless cunt between them. He could see her own arousal glistening on her folds, the tip of her clit just poking into view. A wonderful throb swelled his cock, made him reach down and undo his pants to lessen the strain. Then he dove for her pussy, gave the soft, sensitive skin a greedy lap with his tongue, a firm tease against her opening.

Dany let out a soft cry and arched off the bed. On either side of his head, her thighs trembled. He recognized the sign, though he was shocked that Dany was close already. When he closed his mouth over her and sucked, she jerked beneath him. Her fingernails pierced his scalp and urged him on.

“Jon, yes, please, _fuck_.”

She swore like Jon had never heard from her before. An endless tirade of curses filled the room alongside the wet sucks and slurps of his mouth on her as she rutted against his lips. When the first shudder shook her, Jon grabbed her thighs to hold her to him, swallowed the flood of her wetness that hit his tongue. Shouting and thrashing, Dany came for him, once, twice, like a shockwave rolling through her body.

Her muscles twitched in his grasp, her thighs shaking against his cheeks as he began to ease off her with gentle flicks and curls of his tongue. Dany collapsed in a heap of lilac chiffon, the shoulders of her dress hanging off her arms, her hard nipples slipping free. Jon crawled over her, still in his shirt and pants. He rolled his hips down to meet hers, groaning at the friction, using his weight to press her down.

“Get your clothes off,” Dany panted. “ _Now_.”

Jon obeyed at once. He tugged his dress shirt up and over his head, then rolled onto his back beside her and worked on kicking his pants and underwear off. Dany followed him, kneeling next to him as she struggled to pull her sizeable dress over her head. She managed it with a little help from him, but there was no ignoring the sharp sound of fabric ripping.

“Sorry.” Jon muttered as he tossed the bulky mass to the floor. “I did mean to—”

“Lay down,” Dany ordered. She pressed at his shoulders, her face a glowing, pleasant pink, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. “I want you inside me now.”

Jon flopped back on the pillows as she took his cock in her hands. He cursed and grunted as she stroked him, admiring her kneeling beside him in the lamplight. Her skin was tanner than the last time he’d seen her, darkened from months at outdoor events around the southern provinces. Each breast was rosy tipped and hard, begging for several teasing, languid sucks. Before he could lean up to do so, Dany turned away from him, his cock still in her hand, straddling his hips and facing the end of the bed.

He suddenly had a gorgeous view of her perky ass, hovering only a few inches above his eager cock. She let his heavy cock fall back to his belly, then began to slowly rutt against the length of him. Jon grabbed her hips on instinct, exhaling sharply as her wetness slid over him.

“Fuck, Dany, come on.” His hips jolted her upward at one particularly delicious slid. “Don’t tease me, it’s been long enough.”

“Has it?” Dany glanced at him over her shoulder, rolling her hips nice and slow. “Mmm, how long has it been since you’ve stretched me wide?”

“Three fucking months.”

“And?”

“Four days, seven hours. Gods, _please_ , love. I want to come inside you, not all over myself again.”

“Have you been saving yourself for me, Jon Snow?”

He gave a wozy nod, his grip on her hips so strong he was certain she’d have finger-sized bruises in the morning.

“You better have. I want your cum dripping out of me until long after you leave.”

Her eyes sparkled as she stared back at him, a little smile quirking up her lips. Then she lifted her hips, lined his cock’s thick head up, and sheathed him inside her. Jon gave a howl as she clamped tight around him. For a moment, he was quite certain that his brains had decided to leak out of his eyes. Her heat was perfect, so exquisitely hot and tight, he had to reach down and squeeze the base of his cock to keep himself in control.

Above him, Dany was panting, arching her back as she adjusted to being filled.

“You good?”

Jon offered a choked off groan, let go of his cock, and took one of her ass cheeks in hand, urging her to move. She leaned forward onto her hands, spread her thighs wider and began to ride, slow at first, working up to a steady pace. He could only watch, mesmerized, as her plump cunt swallowed him, her opening stretched silky and tight around him as she moved.

“Gods, I love watching you take my cock.”

Jon pinched her ass cheek, then grabbed as much of it as he could, dragging her up and down harder, urging her to move harder as she dropped onto her elbows and let out a low moan. He could see her thighs shaking, little wonderful trembles running up and down the firm muscles. When he pressed his thumb against her puckered hole, Dany squirmed. A gasp left her. Around his cock, her muscles tightened and her rhythm faltered.

“You want that too, love?”

His thumb rubbed over the puckered skin, felt it squeeze tight as he pressed against it. They hadn’t explored anal before, hadn’t discussed it yet either, but Dany’s back bowed as he applied firm pressure to her hole.

“Dany?”

“Y-yes, just your thumb.” Her voice was weak and needy. “I’m close again.”

He removed his thumb as her hips came to a stop, then gave her left cheek a sharp smack. Dany cried out, her cunt clenching. Again, Jon urged her on, grabbing her ass and dragging her up and down his cock. Once she was moving on her own again, sweating and shaking and moaning, he slicked his thumb with spit and gently eased it into her ass. She was as hot and tight there as her cunt. Jon groaned with her as he pressed his thumb against the thin muscles between the two, felt the full slid of his cock stretching her.

She called out his name as he massaged that spot. Her hips began to jerk erratically, hard slapping thrusts back onto him. Then her hand fumbled at her front, finally cupping his balls. When she squeezed them, Jon’s senses left him. Thunder charged up his spine, his cock jerked within her, his mind went wondrously blank as she came around him, both of them shouting and heaving. His eyes fluttered as he filled her, a heaviness taking hold of his limbs...

He must have dozed off. The sweat on his body had cooled, though the bedding was still damp and clung to his back. Lamps still flared with light from their wall sconces, but Dany was resting beside him, curled up on her side. His cum had left trails on her thigh.

“Dany?”

Her only response was a sleepy grumble. Jon got up and turned the lights off, then returned to the bed with a blanket to cover her. Moonlight fell in wide bars across the room, lit up her hair like it was glowing. He snuggled up to her, scooping her to his chest.

“That was good,” Dany mumbled against him. Her lips brushed his skin. “Didn’t know I’d like that. Your finger there.”

“I quite liked it, too. Do you want to... explore that more?”

“Not with this,” Dany said, and her hand fumbled at his soft cock. “Not yet, but maybe we could try some other things. Work our way up to that.”

“Oh, does my favorite princess have a secret box of toys somewhere?”

Dany shifted until she could look at him. Her expression was quite curious. “Toys?”

“Sex toys. Dildos, vibrators, that kind of stuff,” Jon explained and her inquisitive look. “You’ve probably never… I haven’t either, but I know there’s a bunch. We could try some, if you wanted. I’m sure they’ve got ones for your cute butt.”

“And maybe your cute butt, too.” She bite him on the chin, grinning in the most satisfied way that made his chest burst. “Do men—would you want to try it too?”

Jon didn’t have an answer for that. He’d explored a bit by himself, but he’d never done _that_. A lot of men enjoyed it, he knew, but…

“Maybe. If it’s with you, I’m willing to try just about anything once.”

“Good. Then you should try fucking me so hard my eyes roll up in my head. I am yours to bend and contort as you see fit.”

A great laugh left him as her slim hand curled around his cock and began to stroke him.

“Already?”

“You promised me a wild night of ravaging, Jon Snow. It’s not even midnight yet.”

He kissed her as they rolled over under the moonlight. “I love you.”

Dany leaned back beneath him, surprise in the curve of her eyebrows and the brightness in her eyes. Then a soft, adoring smile crept into her face. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is... someone royal.
> 
> Probably next Tuesday again, but it shouldn't be too long! 
> 
> I will see you kids on the other side of the Season 8 Premiere???? -panics-


	19. RHAELLA I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have survived the Season 8 premiere!!!!
> 
> But seriously, why is it only Thursday?!?! -makes grabby hands toward the HBOGo app-
> 
> Anyway, here's Rhaella!

 

 

 

 

Waning moonlight encased Rhaella’s balcony, dazzling against the glassy frost forming on the crenellations. The sea below was a sloshy cadence as waves met the sheer, rocky cliff face. Nights in the Red Keep had always been her favorite. Sitting upon her wide balcony, telescope aimed at the Ice Dragon painted across the clear winter sky. Solitude fell about the visible world like a soft, warm cloak. Her nightgown stirred in the chilly breeze, prickled at her bare ankles. She pulled her thick robe tighter around herself and adjusted the lens again.

“Mother?”

Her son’s tired voice called her back inside. Rhaegar stood in the antechamber, dressed in his own nightclothes—a simple pair of red silk pajamas, their family’s ancient sigil stitched in ivory over the right breast—awaiting her summons. He was dutiful, as always. For all his bookishness, his brooding nature, his disinterest in political machinations, Rhaegar had never been anything less than a perfect prince. An ideal future king.

_ I did well by him, didn’t I? _

“Enter.”

She sank onto the velvet-cushioned bench before her vanity. Rhaegar appeared at once with exquisite posture and an expression of polite interest on his face. Over dinner, Rhaella had given him a summarized explanation of Daenerys’s and Jon Snow’s brief disappearance, but she’d left out the ensuing conversation. The boy was wrong, surely. Misguided by infatuation for Daenerys or a lingering grievance from his childhood and yet…

Even a great actor could not pull off that exact mixture of rage and anguish in his eyes. Nor the tightness in his voice when he’d spoken of his stepmother. He’d spoken on Daenerys’s behalf, in a way her daughter never had before. Jon’s vehement words had vibrated through her ribcage like a tolling bell had replaced her heart. She’d seen the sullen looks, the deferential shift of Daenerys’s violet eyes, the bitten lip she’d scolded Daenerys for time and time again. But surely, it was not so devastating a picture as Jon Snow had painted.

Yet, the pair of them, her sweet girl and Ned Stark’s bastard boy, were as close as could be. They’d shared secret heartaches together, it seemed, wrought by their own unique circumstances.

But Jon Snow must be wrong, however impressive his boldness had been in the face of her authority. Daenerys understood her affections. Just as Rhaegar understood her tender love for each of her children. Whatever confidences Daenerys had shared with Jon Snow, the boy must have been too presumptuous; taken her daughter’s words out of context. She’d been raised to see that a ruler’s duty outweighed all else—even the more visible aspects of a mother’s love. A queen had to be more than a mother. Daenerys understood that.

“Sit, dear. I wish to speak with you.”

He knew that already, but courtesy was her daily language. From dawn to dusk, from her birth until her death, Rhaella would express nothing less.

She scooped up her hairbrush and began to run it over her waves of graying hair, sliding through tangles and loose knots, examining the fraying ends in need of a trim. All the while, Rhaegar sat in the stiff chair facing her, waiting. He was the first to crack, the worn little wrinkles at the corner of his mouth deepening as he frowned.

“I expect this is going to be a more detailed accounting of why Jon didn’t emerge with Daenerys earlier.” His weary sigh was every bit his grandfather. She thanked the Seven everyday that he’d outgrown the traces of his father that had shaped his boyhood face. Less reminds of Aerys were for the best. “Jon is trustworthy, Mother, I’ve never been more certain—”

“Was I a good mother to you?”

“You—of course.” 

Despite the shock in his expression, Rhaegar’s answer had been swift and firm. Her chest loosen a bit at that.

“And to Daenerys, would you consider my relationship and parenting of your sister of the same caliber as what you experienced growing up?”

“I—well, the circumstances were… quite different.” 

His hesitancy was a fist around her heart. Shame washed over her, heavy and hot and terrible. All these years, and she’d never stopped to ask, to consider how different her interactions with her youngest were since she’d born the weight of a crown on her head, of a country on her unprepared shoulders. Yet, Rhaegar would never lie to her. Not about this. He had always been unfailingly honest with her.

He tried to correct course, but to no end. “You weren’t the ruling Queen when I was a boy, Mother. Grandfather and Aerys handled ruling, while you focused your attentions of raising me. You didn’t have that benefit with Daenerys. It was just us back then.”

_ No, not us alone. We were just the only ones to survive. _

Sixteen years had passed with only her and Rhaegar. Those years had been marked by stillbirths and miscarriages, tears and heartache, and three babes that had survived birth, but not life.

_ Daeron and Aegon and tiny Jaehaerys, what I wouldn’t give to hold you three again. _

What she wouldn’t give for Rhaegar to have that chance with his own little ones. Twenty-four years past, but she would never forget her granddaughter’s beaming, irrepressible spirit, nor the stubborn depths of her temper. For a three-year-old, Rhaenys had already been a remarkable, loving girl. Little Aegon had been only months old, blinking and giggling and charming.

“My devotion to each of you should have been the same,” Rhaella said as her hairbrush caught on a knot and refused to budge. “To yourself and your sister and… Viserys, too.”

Aerys had never once allowed her to be alone with their second surviving son. Not at his birth, not to breastfeed. He’d been in his father’s clutches from the first. And now… now her once vibrant boy had succumbed to those same depths of madness. 

“Things were different back then,” Rhaegar insisted, a stubborn jut to his chin he’d never lost. “And Daenerys had me when you weren’t available.”

_ Yet you were hardly in the right state of mind to raise a little girl, so soon after losing your own. _

He’d never been the same afterward. Given to fits of tragic depression, Rhaegar’s newfound moroseness had been so penetrating Rhaella often felt its presence like a heaviness in her very muscles. At the hour of the wolf after his wife and childrens’ funeral, Rhaegar, with Ser Arthur at his side, had disappeared into the Stormlands countryside without a trace. When he’d resurfaced near half a year later, the time and separation had seemed to have only made his grief worse.

She worked the brush through her knot with several hard snaps of her wrist. When she didn’t respond, Rhaegar fell into a brooding silence. His dark eyes glinted in the firelight.

“What’s brought all this on? Daenerys’s speech was well received considering some of the more extreme ideas she presented. I’m sure the press and lords will tear it apart after the New Year, but did Dany say—” He faltered, a look of surprised comprehension on his face. “Jon said something to you, didn’t he?”

“That will be all for tonight, dear. It’s been a trying day.”

“He  _ did _ say something to you.”

“Sleep well, Rhaegar.”

For a long moment, he remained on his chair. A glimmer of defiance flashed in his eyes, brought her irresistibly back to her confrontation with Jon Snow. Her son, however, was less daring. He cleared his throat, wished her a good night, and departed. Rhaella watched him leave, grateful to avoid another heated discussion, but overwhelmed with shame nonetheless. 

Sleep came in fits. She tossed and turned the moonlight away, rising with dawn’s crisp arrival to watched the gibbous moon sink beneath the western hills. Ser Oswell was ever present, a pale shadow within her sights. Having such a guard every moment of her day and night was a welcome comfort. Protection around the clock, someone to defend her physical self, so unlike those years of terror that marked the decline of her marriage.

_ Daenerys doesn’t have the same, not anymore. She doesn’t want what I do. _

Her daughter’s chambers were a bubble of true privacy now. After meeting with the commanders of their security forces and their royal guards, Rhaella had kept her word. Daenerys and her beau were granted their wish. No cameras, no personal guard in the room, no eyes or ears to witness anything that happened between them.

At the same age, Rhaella had longed for nothing more. For Ser Oswell or Ser Barristan or Ser Arthur, even Ser Lewyn who had perished in that ill-fated plane crash with her good daughter and precious grandchildren. Someone to defend her person against the monster Aerys had mutated into over a dozen grievous years.

Rhaella started her day in her expansive closet. She was halfway into her standard stiff dress before she reconsidered. 

Breakfast with Daenerys was generally an impersonal affair. A chance to provide her daughter with any necessary updates, for Daenerys to present any thoughts or ideas as she grew into her role as a princess. She rarely did though, less and less since puberty, until Daenerys had become little more than a breathing statue across the long dining table.

_ Until this Free Folk business—until Jon Snow. _

No matter her reservations, Rhaella could not deny the obvious changes in her daughter’s life. Little peaks of someone quite grand had been poking through the long-standing appearance of a troublesome young woman. Try as she might, Rhaella could only map every change back to one frightful evening when Daenerys had found herself in an inferno. When Jon Snow had helped her to safety.

She unlaced her stiff, conservative dress and turned through her options until she found something simple. Still pretty and royal, but relaxed. Rhaella slipped into it, fixed her hair, then selected a delicate gold band for today’s crown. It was an old tiara, from two centuries past. Once it had been her mother’s wedding gift to her—meant for a princess and eventual queen. Giving it to Daenerys someday was all she might hope for, to see her baby girl stand proud and tall as she swore to share her life with another.

Unbidden, Jon Snow’s defiant eyes flickered before her. Thunder gray, fierce, a warrior’s gaze. He had the necessary strength and courage, Rhaella would allow him that.

“Your Grace, shall I summon Princess Daenerys?”

Ser Oswell stood just inside the archway that connected her personal room to her sitting room. He was stoic and splendid in his pale armour, a bit grizzled with his lank, graying hair. Breakfast for her was always promptly at eight in the morning and by invitation only. Impersonal, practical, meaningless.

“No, Ser Oswell, that won’t be necessary,” Rhaella said, casting her eyes on the quiet serving girl’s arrival with a cart of food. “Today I will be dining with my daughter in her chambers. Lollys, come.”

If either Ser Oswell or Lollys the serving girl were surprised by the decision there was no hint of it on their faces. Rhaella led the way from the Queen’s chambers, taking the long walk from her wing to Daenerys’s at a measured pace. Lord Tyrion was already afoot when she entered the corridor, conversing in quiet tones with Ser Barristan midway down the hall. They both stopped at once when they spotted her, dropping to a knee.

“Rise, my lord, Ser Barristan.”

They did so, Ser Barristan with a hand on Tyrion’s elbow to aide him.

“Your Grace, I was just on my way to see when Princess Daenerys should—”

Rhaella waved Tyrion’s inquiry off. “My daughter and I will be dining in her chambers this morning.”

The two men exchanged an anxious glance, but Rhaella stepped past them to the door at Ser Barristan’s back. Her daughter’s chambers were quiet when she entered. The sitting room was flooded with golden sunlight, the melting frost pebbling the tall windows with dew. Ser Barristan joined Ser Oswell at her back as she examined the space. She’d not been here in quite some time. Not since Daenerys’s first year of college, in the aftermath of her shenanigans with that Khal.

Tyrion edged into the room, his eyes fixed on the shut door to Daenerys’s bedchamber. “I believe they are still sleeping, Your Grace.”

His pronoun choice was not lost on her. 

It shouldn’t have surprised her after Dragonstone. Jon Snow had spent half his nights in her daughter’s chambers while visiting their ancestral home. The Red Keep would hardly be any different for them. Yet, the idea brought a prickle of anxiety, like a needle being threaded under her skin.

“I will handle the situation as needed, my lord. That will be all.”

He was quite thrown by the dismissal, and Rhaella enjoyed the uncertainty that lingered in his frown and mismatched eyes. It wasn’t every day she had a reason to ruffle Tyrion Lannister. More often than not, he was uprooting her.

_ It’s no wonder he likes the boy. The pair of them, together, will give Daenerys no rest. _

Once the door had closed behind Tyrion, she knocked on the bedchamber. Daenerys’s soft voice answered at once.

“Come in.”

The bedchamber was darker, all but one window’s curtains were drawn. Every space was need and orderly, the previous evening’s attire draped over a cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. Lilac chiffon and Jon’s simple black suit. She’d been rather surprised by the choice, to find her daughter’s guest in a standard suit instead of a ceremonial uniform of his former army rank. A wise decision, perhaps, but a strange lack of self-promotion hung about him. He didn’t play up any of his experiences or strengths or attempt to sit himself in the limelight. 

Across the room, the bed was bright in the morning sunlight. Rhaella paused within sight, taking in the pair. Jon was sound asleep, resting on his back with one arm being used to prop up Daenerys’s book. She was curled up beside him, her face hidden by the book’s blue leather cover.

“Jon, are you done? Jon?”

He gave a snuffling little snore and his head rolled behind the book cover too. A great giggle erupted before behind the book, then the scratch of a page being turned.

“I am not reading it to you, Jon Snow. It’s right here in front of you.”

A husky grumble answered, indecipherable across the room.

“Oh, it sounds better when I read it?  _ Puh-lease _ .”

Strangeness came over Rhaella at the exchange, a feeling so full and swift she couldn’t place it. They fell silent then, as another page turned.

“Daenerys?”

Her daughter bolted upright like a cannon had blasted off outside her door. That was all the answer Rhaella needed to understand Jon’s words to her the night before. Frantic-eyed, Daenerys let the book slip off Jon’s bare chest and fall with a smack to the floor. She was already dressed for the morning—a loose, silk dressing gown, a soft pair of slippers. Her hair was tied back in a single braid, but the uncertainty and fright was palpable.

“Mother, forgive me—I mean, us. I wasn’t expecting you to—I mean, I was, of course, expecting your summons for breakfast, but…”

Jon gave a helpful snuffling snore from her daughter’s side. Rhaella eyed him for a moment, from the patchwork of scars across his torso to the part of his lips as he dozed off. Daenerys’s eyes followed her gaze. She offered an apologetic glance, then shook Jon’s arm.

“Jon, wake up, my mo—the Queen’s here.”

He only made a disgruntled noise and shifted away from her persistent shakes. Then his face did something quite peculiar—his closed eyes crinkled, one corner of his mouth scrunched up followed quickly by the other. Jon turned his head away as he rolled onto his side and slept onward, but the expression unsettled Rhaella. More a moment, she might have been in Rhaegar’s childhood chambers, trying to rouse her sleep-loving little son for a long day of royal life. She’d seen that exact expression more times than she could count, right down to the intricate shifts of each muscle and skin. Rhaenys had inherited that very same look.

“My apologies, Mother, he—Jon doesn’t often get the opportunity to sleep in.”

Rhaella shook off the moment, took in Jon’s face returned to normal, smooth and calm as he slept. “It’s quite fine, dear. I was hoping for the pair of us to dine together this morning. In your chambers for a change.”

Confusion settled hard and uncertain on Daenerys’s young face. She kept her hand on Jon’s arm, but stopped shaking him as she turned back to Rhaella.

“Here? In my—that would be lovely.” A mask of composure closed over her then, polite and formal with just a hint of wariness. “The balcony is too cold, but my sitting room would be perfect.”

Rhaella returned to the main room, Daenerys a few steps behind her. Lollys had already set up their meal, platters of fresh omelettes, crispy bacon, grilled tomatoes, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Both Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell were waiting on either side of the door to the bedchamber. They pulled the door closed at once, sealing Jon away. 

“Thank you, Lollys, that will be all.”

The serving girl curtseyed and left with her cart. Daenerys sat down slowly, eyeing the spread, but glancing at Rhaella too. 

_ —make her doubt herself or make her wonder if you even love her at all— _

Much as she’d wished Jon Snow to be wrong, Daenerys’s stiffness gave the truth away. Every time Daenerys grabbed a new selection, or poured her glass of juice, her eyes shifted just a fraction to take in Rhaella. Guarded and unsure, as wary as a cornered shadowcat. Rhaella sipped her own juice, swallowing hard as she stared at the table. Her own little girl was afraid of her, expecting to be chastised or accused every second they spent together.

How had she never noticed? Had she used Daenerys’s past mistakes as a filter to shield herself from seeing how detrimental her own words and actions had been to Daenerys’s growth? When was the last time she’d given her daughter any real kindness, or the simple affection of a hug?

Not even after Daenerys’s safe return from the hospital had Rhaella allowed herself that.

“Mother, I feel I should apologize for last night. Jon and I should not have—”

“You did nothing wrong, dear.”

Those big violet eyes threatened to rip a hole through her. She might have been two decades younger in that moment; an exhausted, sweaty, bleeding mess of afterbirth and panic, until the doctor had set her tiny girl against her breast. Violet eyes had gazed up at her sleepily, yet in comforting recognition, too. Of all the babies Rhaella had birthed, only Daenerys had been born with violet eyes already intact. She had named her on the spot, despite Aerys’s prior demands to name her himself. Daenerys had been the name that lived in those sweet, trusting eyes as a hurricane raged all around them.

Across the table, Daenerys bit her lip. For once, Rhaella couldn’t bring herself to scold her for it. Instead, Daenerys glanced about the room, hesitating, before she said, “Jon told me that he… exchanged words with you. That he… shouted.”

“He did.” Rhaella cut a wedge off her omelette and took a long time to chew it. “And it seems…”

Daenerys watched her like she was about to witness an execution. “He would never undermine your—”

“Jon was right.”

Shock loosened Daenerys’s tight mask, and a shadow of jealousy passed quick as a blink. Rhaella almost missed it, but there it was, a plain and harsh truth. So much of her life had been little else. But seeing her praise of Jon hurt Daenerys was the last confirmation. When was the last time she’d offered that to her own daughter?

“Perhaps not in how he said things, nor for raising his voice, but he cares a great deal for you,” Rhaella went on, despite the way her hands trembled as she cut up the rest of her omelette. “He was, and is, entirely unafraid to show it, or to accept anything else than those around you loving and caring for you in equal measure. And he was right to remind me of that, to let me know that while I have been succeeding as a Queen bringing up a princess, I have been less than ideal as a mother raising a daughter.”

“Mother, you’ve been…”

“As far removed from perfect as you’ve been in your royal duties these past few years?”

Daenerys tilted her head like she was about to nod, but refrained from it. Fearful of being caught out, perhaps, not trusting that Rhaella wasn’t laying a trap for her to step in.

“I expect I’ve stacked up quite a few more years than you,” Rhaella continued when her daughter stayed silent. “And I am… I’m sorry for that, Daenerys. Being a queen is a never-ending roller coaster, and for all these years I’ve been meaning to prepare you for ruling, I’m afraid I’ve done nothing more than distance you from it. From so many truths and… from myself, too?”

She hadn’t intended it as a question. A queen was not meant to appear uncertain, to ask of others instead of commanding them. But Daenerys’s eyes had gone bright with unshed tears. They both set their silverware down and considered one another across the round table.

“You have,” Daenerys said. Her voice was soft as she stared out the window. “I don’t… I never expected my life to be like others, I knew that even before Father died, but… it’s like you died with him. And then again with Viserys. The only fond memories I have of us are from when I was little, you know that? Before you became Queen, when we were still on Dragonstone with Rhaegar. And even those… it’s like trying to see a picture through moving water. I was only five when Father died, and everything before that…”

_ Father. _

Only Daenerys still referred to Aerys in that manner. Rhaegar did his best to never mention him, to remove himself from those conversations or to change the subject. They’d never told her that unpleasant truth. Not of Elia and her children's’ murders, nor Rickard and Brandon Stark’s suspicious deaths, not of the abuse or the threats or the madness that might linger in their very blood…

Even Tyrion knew everything. He’d weaseled most of it out of Rhaegar one wine-filled, brooding night. The rest had come directly from her, explaining the crown’s darkest and perhaps greatest secret.

“How much do you remember of your father?”

Daenerys faltered. “Almost nothing. He didn’t visit Dragonstone often, did he?”

“Only twice after your birth,” Rhaella said. “Once to see you and the damage that hurricane caused, and when you three to speak to Rhaegar.”

Her gaze lowered, and again she bit her lip. “Father was… Rhaegar never speaks of him. Neither do you, or anyone else.”

“Kings live on in other ways than words and memories.” Rhaella swallowed another gulp of orange juice. “Your father… Aerys was…”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it until Daenerys had looked up and met her eyes again. Seeing that glowing violet, that childlike hope was the strength she needed.

“Aerys was a sick man, Daenerys. For years and years, he grew cruel and horrible, lost in paranoia and madness. It’s past time you understood the truth.”

“The truth? But everyone says he was… I don’t understand. Father was a king. The King. Surely, he was… was good before he went insane.”

Rhaella extended a careful hand and grasped Daenerys’s where it rested on the table. For the next hour she spoke into the silence. Telling Daenerys the truth had always been a planned affair. Now, her daughter sat across from her, wide-eyed and unreadable, as Rhaella spoke. Of the marriage herself and Aerys had been forced into, of their mutual dislike but acceptance of their lives. Then Rhaegar’s arrival that, for a time, had bonded them more closely together.

“He doted on Rhaegar when he was little. I daresay, your brother might have been the only thing we ever agreed on. Before my father died and Aerys became King at least.” Rhaella shook away the memories, the sight of a chubby-cheeked, indigo-eyed baby taking his first steps into his father’s arms. “But in the years after, we struggled to conceive. Miscarriages, stillbirths, a few little ones that lived for a few months but not beyond that. And your father… he mistrusted me for it.”

“Mistrusted? Did he blame you for that?”

“Toward the end, yes. He grew hard, cold, paranoid that I had a secret lover elsewhere. That my failed pregnancies were someone else’s illegitimate children. He confined me to my chambers for a long time. But nothing changed, of course. And Aerys…”

She fell silent then, for so long, Rhaella was certain the raw ache in her throat had stolen the last of her voice away for good.

“Mother, did he… did he hurt you?”

“Yes.” She took a shaky breath. “Many times, I’m afraid. A king takes what he wants afterall.”

“So… Viserys and I, we’re—”

“My children that I love to the ends of the earth. Whom I have done everything possible to protect.”

Daenerys nodded, but her expression remained troubled. “How did nobody realize he was going insane? Or hurting you?”

“Some did, I think. Toward the end, there was no hiding his outbursts and fits. For years, Aerys shut himself away in the Red Keep. Nobody saw him except a few guards, myself, and Rhaegar. He grew gaunt and wild and… wretched. And… we haven’t the direct proof—accusing a king of anything could so easily be labeled treason—but he still managed to do great harm. The Baratheons disappeared at sea, Lord Renly’s parents. Nobody ever found the wreckage, and nothing ever washed ashore, but I think that was the first time Aerys decided to eliminate someone who spoke against him. Their oldest son, Robert, died around the time you were born. He was even more boisterous than his parents.”

“Father—he  _ murdered _ people?”

“Never by his own hand, but I have no doubts he gave many orders for it. Aerys was not the kindest man when we were young, Daenerys, and he only grew worse as the years passed.”

“And you and Rhaegar just _let_ _him_ —”

“Your father was King, Daenerys. Could you, even as a princess, stop me from doing as I wished if you didn’t agree?”

The blaze of anger on her daughter’s face faded. When she shook her head, she said, “Of course not. Your word is absolute. You represent what is law and truth in Westeros.”

“I try to do so, yes. Your father, on the other hand, was never much interested in those things. It was the absolute power that drew him in, nothing more.”

Daenerys nodded quietly. “So, he had his own subjects and lords and ladies murdered as he pleased?”

“Quite a few nasty incidents happened the last ten years of his reign. You recall the series of wildfire explosions from the years before you were born?”

“Of course, I learned about it in my history classes, but they never found the culprit. One day, it just stopped. Father did that?”

“If I had to guess,” Rhaella said. “He harmed a lot of people, ordered many lives ended, dear. The Baratheons, several Lannisters, even two of the Starks.” At Daenerys’s startled expression, Rhaella nodded. “Jon’s grandfather and uncle, Brandon. It was a car crash, but… they were headed south, to meet for a summit at the Dragonpit. Both of them were very vocal about the need for Aerys to step down or be removed.”

Daenerys’s hand shook in hers as Rhaella squeezed it tight and waited. They’d have more discussions on Aerys in the coming days and weeks, even years. Avoiding his legacy would be impossible, even if the rest of the country had only a few glimpses of his madness at the end.

“Is that it then?”

Tears rimmed Daenerys’s eyes, but Rhaella couldn’t bring herself to end it there. The worst was always the hardest, and refraining from it now would not lessen the devastation.

“I wish it were, but you know that Rhaegar is not particularly fond on Aerys.”

Daenerys swiped at her eyes with her free hand. “He refuses to speak about him.”

“When Viserys was born, your father decided that he would rather his second son be named his heir. Not publicly, but he wanted nothing more than a son and heir who hung on his every word. Rhaegar was near grown, and raised by me almost entirely. He stood against Aerys, spoke openly against him and his decisions, and Aerys…”

“He didn’t like that, but Rhaegar—he’s never seemed to care about the crown.”

“Once, he did. When he wed a charming young woman from Sunspear and they had two beautiful children. Your brother wanted only the best for his family, for myself as well.”

“Did Rhaegar—did he try to overthrow…”

“No, but Aerys was relentless. He could not, legally, pass over Rhaegar once he’d been named the crown prince, and since we only had him for so many years, he was the only choice. But he wanted nothing more than for Rhaegar to step aside. Or to be removed.”

“Removed?” A look of dawning horror crossed her face. “He tried to kill Rhaegar?”

“More times than I could count. And one of those attempts was when Rhaegar was meant to be on a plane with Elia and their children headed for Dorne.”

“H-he… no, he…”

Daenerys covered her mouth unable to go on. As the tears began to fall, Rhaella pulled her chair around the table to her daughter’s side and clumsily eased her arms around Daenerys’s trembling shoulders.

“He did, Daenerys. And Rhaegar was never the same afterward. We… we had to do something, you understand. For Westeros and you and Viserys. To protect what remained of our family.” Rhaella shook, too, as Daenerys tucked her head under her chin. “It took years, but we poisoned him. An undetectable one, in small amounts, until one night, Aerys went to sleep and never woke up. I can never forget it just as I can never forgive the man he became, and all the things that he did to us. The thought of him subjecting you to any such life was unbearable. I couldn’t let him harm you, too, Dany. Not my sweet baby girl.”

She hadn’t cried in years. Too hardened by her decades of torturous marriage, and still years more holding her vapid mask as a princess and later as a stoic, stern queen. But Daenerys’s wavering sob reached her as little else could. Rhaella clutched her close as they cried, whispered apologies and comfort against her little girl’s forehead. 

Nothing could change what had led their family here, but perhaps knowing their worst could help Daenerys become their best.

 

* * *

 

They spoke no more of King Aerys in the following days. Their guests from the ball left the Red Keep, Jon Snow escorted his sister personally to the airport to see her off for home, and a solitude knee-deep settled upon the castle. Rhaella kept an eye on Daenerys for signs of misery, but they were few and far between. With Jon beside her, little seemed able to dampen Daenerys’s radiant spirit. Together, they were as happy as Rhaella had ever seen her daughter.

But the truth seemed to have unlocked something between her and Daenerys, too. A strange ease filled her as the days passed. Despite the beginnings of the press shredding their impending policies apart, Rhaella spent her afternoons with her children and Jon Snow. He was rather ill-at-ease around her still, a feat she intended to maintain for as long as possible, but there was no missing the smiles he shared with Daenerys. 

She caught them more than once as Christmas approached. Making out in a secluded alcove between corridors, at other times, in the library, curled up in the same chair sharing soft kisses, their books scattered across the thick hearth rug. Every time Rhaella spotted them, she had to stop herself from flinching or intervening. Or looking for any glimpse of Aerys’s cruelty in this new man’s treatment of her daughter.

Seeing the truth that everyone had already explained was far harder than she cared to admit, but Jon was a gentleman. He was sweet and kind, seemed to absolutely adore Daenerys with his soft smiles and sweet touches. Nothing by fondness lingered between them. As much as it unsettled Rhaella, she was grateful, too. Her own life had given her the exact opposite.

“I doubt we’ll see them for the rest of the night.”

Rhaegar and Tyrion had joined her in her sitting room for a nightcap on Christmas Eve. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the old oil paintings and tapestries. Rhaella sipped her juice and watched Tyrion give the available beverage a mulish look. Only ten minutes ago, Jon and Daenerys had been reported as taking a rousing make-out session from the muted silence of the library to Daenerys’s chambers.

“For the best,” Rhaella said after another sip. “I doubt either of you wished to see more than you did.”

“Less would have been preferable.” Rhaegar grimaced and eyed the juice too. “I never want to walk in on Dany seated in a man’s lap like  _ that _ ever again.”

Rhaella didn’t care to consider it. 

“Well, it may be a blessing if Jon eventually takes the title of husband. Daenerys will need a few children, at least, if our family is to live on.”

Tyrion’s sharp gaze turned away from his alcohol-free glass and to her. “Your Grace, are you reconsidering the idea of grandchildren with wild, dark curls?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Rhaegar gave an odd jerk that stopped he. His jaw went tight, the glass of juice in his hand shaking so bad its contents splashed onto his lap.

“ _ Fuck _ . Sorry.” 

Rhaegar made a big show of cleaning up his mess, but Rhaella watched him carefully. Her son cursing was a rare occurrence, but Tyrion was a step ahead.

“Apologies, my prince, I should have been more tactful after your… I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”

“It’s fine. Fine.” Rhaegar downed the remains of his juice and set the glass aside. He seemed wearier than ever, dark circles lined his eyes. Since the ball, he’d appeared lethargic and ill, was reported to be up and about the castle at all hours of the night. “This time of year is always rough after… it’s fine. Having Jon around helps.”

It seemed an odd thing to say, and Rhaella couldn’t place the expression on his face either. Guarded, pained, a glint almost like a secret in his dark eyes.

“You still approve of him?” she asked him.

“He’ll be a great asset to the royal family, and a wonderful partner for Daenerys in the years to come. I enjoy having him around. He’s a refreshing, smart young man.”

Yet, something lingered in the forced genial tone he spoke with, there again, at the edge of his eyes. Regret, perhaps, but how such a thing could connect him to the blossoming love between Daenerys and Jon, she couldn’t fathom.

“Have you reached an understanding of his character, Mother?”

“I have,” Rhaella admitted, “for now. He seems better than I’d hoped for in a potential suitor. Genuine, caring, bold. Whether or not he can someday wear the title of husband or father is another matter for next year.”

Rhaegar flinched again, the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth deepening into a sullen frown. Behind him, Ser Arthur shifted in the shades beside the hearth. Rhaella considered him for a long time, seemingly unnoticed by her son. Grief hung about him like a fallen chandelier trapped around his shoulders.

Yet nothing could be done for it. No words or comfort would bring back the wife and children he had lost, nor give him a second chance. He’d chosen a path away from that, irreversibly so, decades ago. 

Tyrion finally reached for his juice, took a suspicious sip, and winced.

“If it please Your Graces, I will retire for the evening to the wine cellar. Pineapple juice, I ask you…”

“Go.”

Tyrion departed at top speed, and Rhaella took his seat on the couch beside her son. He’d hardly stirred as Tyrion left. His dark eyes remained fixed on the fire.

“Rhaegar?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine, I only…”

“I miss them, too, dear. More than words can express.”

Rhaegar inhaled sharply then choked on a strangled sound fighting to get out of him. She eased him into her arms, cradled his head against her chest much as she had with Daenerys only days before. He shook, but no tears came. Only soft mutterings left him, incomprehensible with his face buried against her dressing gown.

“I wish… I wish that he…”

“Shh, I wish they were here, too.”

He only shook his head against her. Somehow, Rhaella felt quite certain that her wish was very different from her son’s unspoken one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is a little Stark family Christmas time. And then Rhaegar aka Sad Panda aka Grumpy Gills.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!! <3 <3 <3


	20. ARYA II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Arya update before the Battle of Winterfell wrecks us all on Sunday night D:
> 
> This one's a bit shorter than recent updates, but enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Winterfell came to life when the cold arrived. Snow frosted the old courtyard’s cobblestones and dimmed the vibrant golden light the glass gardens cast into the night. Near everything in sight was a pale gleam of haunting, snowy silver under the moonlight. A burst of vivid scarlet marked the towering weirwood beyond the godswood’s stone walls. Globes of half-buried Christmas lights blooming like fireflies in the dark. Arya peered out from the covered bridge, scanning the snow-filled courtyard below. Nothing moved except the snowflakes drifting to the earth.

“Anything? Come on, lemme see!”

“Shut  _ up _ , Rickon.”

Before Arya could reach back to smack him, Sansa was there. She slapped their baby brother on the back of the head.

“ _ Ouch! _ ”

“Quiet, you idiot.”

Rickon’s retort was cut off as Bran hooked his arm around Rickon’s head and used his hand to cover the younger boy’s mouth.

“Well?”

“Nothing yet. He always comes through around this time,” Arya told them. She peered down at the courtyard, waiting, and then she heard it—the crunch of footsteps in the crisp, old layer of snow. “There.”

A beam of pale light fell over the snow, the flashlight swinging back and forth, then up to the covered bridge. These days, the bridge was little used, a remnant from centuries past when the armory had still been functional. Now the space was storage, the ground floor used to house their bikes, snowboards, skis and hunting gear. The top floor, however, was a large kennel for the wolves. Ser Rodrik crunched past below, scanning the courtyard once more, before Arya heard the beeps of the keypad below.

_ Two minute sweep of the armory, then we’re good. _

They waited, hidden in the dark archway that connected the covered bridge to the main keep. The shadowy doorway across the bridge rattled as Ser Rodrik tested the lock. One of the wolves offered a mournful howl. Shaggydog. Their breath mingle in cloudy puffs as they waited, Rickon’s huffing from his nostrils as two streams of vapor. Finally, after a few creaks and thumps, Ser Rodrik reappeared below, headed back to the guard tower for the remainder of the night.

“Let’s go.”

They clambered across the bridge as snow swirled through the open arches. Bran scooped Rickon up, hand still clamped over his mouth. When they arrived, all the wolves were waiting, whining softly, tails swinging in excitement. Even Shaggydog held in his howls of greeting, seemed to understand the need for secrecy tonight. All the pack but Ghost, who was back in the main keep with Father, and Grey Wind, who was with Robb. It was a large square room, the  kennels lined up along one wall beside the door to the ground floor. Empty bowls, torn cushions, and dog toys, in various states of destruction, littered the ground. In the corner next to the bridge’s door was a trio of worn, ripped armchairs.

“Hey, girl.” Arya kneeled down in front of Nymeria’s kennel and pulled the door open. At once her wolf was on her, raspy tongue coating Arya’s face is saliva. 

Her siblings did the same with their own wolves. Rickon disappeared in a tumble of shaggy black fur and giggles. Bran buried his face in the thick brown fur on Summer’s neck. Sansa settled down primly on the cleanest of the armchairs, Lady’s head in her lap. Since Father’s return and open-heart surgery, the wolves had been confined at night. Arya had protested until she was almost screaming, but to no end. His first night back, too weak to even walk from his office-turned-temporary-bedroom to the bathroom on his own, Shaggydog and Nymeria had knocked Father over and then unconscious. Mother had locked them up every night since.

Ghost had been another matter. Though originally confined to the kennels with the rest, he’d somehow managed to escape. When he wasn’t glued to Father’s side, aiding him as he hobbled around the castle, Ghost was roaming the godswood. So far, he’d avoided Ser Rodrik’s every attempt to corral him back to the kennel. Both times Mother had charged Arya and Bran with his recapture, they’d instead hung out in the godswood, having rough snowball fights with him.

“Few more weeks,” Arya assured them as she settled on a torn cushion in the corner. “Then you lot can go wild again.”

“I’m surprised Ghost hasn’t broken them all out yet.”

“He’s not stupid enough to come near here until they’re allowed out at night again,” Sansa said. She stroked Lady’s ears until the wolf’s tail was thumping loudly on the wooden floor. “I wish Jon had come home with me.”

Rickon appeared from under Shaggydog’s bulk. “Can’t blame him, can you? With how Mum is anymore.”

Arya frowned as Nymeria’s pine-scented warmth settled over her legs. Bran took a seat on the chair next to Sansa’s and heaved Summer up until the wolf was stretched out with his head and back legs hanging off the arm rests.

“Did he mention it when you saw him?”

Sansa sighed. “You know Jon. I had to drag it out of him, but Robb and you were right. Mother blamed him, told him she wanted it to be him and probably a hundred other terrible things.”

“But he’s spending Christmas with the Queen?” Rickon grinned, then blew kisses at each of them. “And his  _ princess _ .”

“She’s very nice,” Sansa said, frowning. “Nicer than you’ll ever be.”

Rickon’s face fell. “I’m nice!”

Arya snorted. “For a baby.”

“I’m not a baby, I’m almost thirteen!”

But his voice cracked like a firecracker, and the other three snickered at his offended protests. 

“Shut it,” Arya told him, scooping up a stuffed bear with its stomach ripped open and throwing it at him. “You screech like that, and we’ll have Mother in here scolding us.”

Rickon groaned and slumped over onto the floor. At once, Shaggydog climbed on top of him and went back to licking his face. As Bran shut his eyes and rubbed Summer’s belly, Arya listened to the night beyond the granite walls. An owl called in the distance, the godswood’s branches creaked in the breeze. Sansa sniffed beside her, but since her sister’s return the day before, Arya had been surprised to find her so collected. Jeyne hadn’t been mentioned once since Sansa returned home. Even last night, when they’d sat up together drinking hot cocoa until the sky turned pale with the dawn, the topic hadn’t been breached.

“How was the ball? Did Jon dance like a headless chicken?”

Rickon cackled from under Shaggydog, and Sansa cracked a grin.

“No, he was quite graceful actually. Probably practiced with his coat rack or something.” Sansa shrugged and booped Lady on the nose with her finger. “It was fun and  _ beautiful _ . Professor Tyrell was there, and I met the Queen and Prince Rhaegar, and some of the other high ladies who were interested in my political ideas.”

“And Jon?”

“I didn’t see much of him after it started,” Sansa admitted. “He had eyes only for Daenerys. Can’t blame him either, she was gorgeous.”

“Hell yeah, she was!” Rickon tried to roll Shaggydog off himself and was pinned further as Nymeria draped herself over her brother. “Oof, get your stupid wolf off, Arya!”

“Get her off yourself, toad.”

“She was very beautiful,” Bran mumbled, eyes still shut. Something about Summer had always soothed him into a sleepy daze. “Jojen and I went over her televised speech for Ser Brynden. We got to do a write up on it for the paper this time. He wants to do a joint interview with her and Jon next year.”

“Jon’ll hate that.” Arya shifted to sit back against Sansa’s legs, kissed Lady’s soft, fluffy cheek. “Did you—”

Across the covered bridge, the door to the main keep creaked open. Arya heard it first, jolting to her knees, eyes on the armory door. It took the approaching footsteps before Sansa, Bran, and Rickon heard anything. The wolves, however, were as calm as could be. Summer continued his lazy lounging, Lady tried to headbutt her. Even Shaggydog remained quiet. Nymeria lifted her head and sniffed toward the door, then her tail lifted toward the ceiling.

_ Robb. _

She heard the scuffle of nails on the bridge, then a light knock on the door. Robb’s head poked around the door, a huge grin on his face.

“Father said you lot were probably up here.”

“Robb!”

With hitherto unknown strength, Rickon pushed both wolves off and launched himself into Robb’s arms. The two embraced as Grey Wind and Margaery stepped into the room. Nymeria tackled Grey Wind at once. As the pair wrestled on the floor, Arya and the rest exchanged hugs and greetings with Robb and Margaery. They were both glowing with happiness, Robb’s hand on his wife’s hip, his fingers brushing the subtle curve of her belly.

“Can you feel him yet?” Rickon asked once everyone was seated. “The baby? Is it, like, wiggling around in you?”

Robb rolled his eyes as Margaery laughed. “I see Pop finally gave you the talk.”

“And like usual, he didn’t listen to a damn bit of it,” Arya muttered.

With a shiteating grin, Rickon announced proudly, “I know where to put it!”

Arya flipped him off. “But not how to use it.”

Rickon’s face went red, but before he could argue, Sansa had pushed him onto his butt. He was once again buried under the wolves, Grey Wind and Nymeria joining Shaggydog in effectively pinning him. 

“No, I can’t feel anything yet. Maybe in another month or so. I’m only fourteen weeks.”

“Out of how many?”

“More than you can count,” Bran told him. “Besides, its a girl, genius.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Robb told them. “It’s too early.”

“It’s a girl,” Arya told them. “Or I’ll kick you in the balls until you give me a niece. We don’t need another one like  _ him _ .”

She slapped Rickon’s waving hand. 

“Bran, get him up. I’m not explaining to Mother why her baby suffocated in the wolf’s den.”

Reluctantly, Bran nudged the wolves off Rickon, who huffed and sulked until Shaggydog showered him in an endless wave of sloppy kisses.

“You lot gotten around to Jon yet?”

“A bit.” Sansa glanced at Arya’s dour expression. “Have you talked to him since I left King’s Landing?”

“On the drive up,” Robb said. “He was on his way to lunch with the Queen.”

Everyone stared at him. Sansa and Margaery in surprise, Bran and Rickon in nervous awe.

“He didn’t have time to chat, but he sounded happy.”

“He is,” Sansa assured them. “Happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“I wish he was here.” Arya hung her head as Nymeria pressed up against her side. “ He  _ should _ be here.”

“I’m sure he’ll call,” Robb said. 

_ He better. _

Arya glowered at him, and wrapped her arm around Nymeria’s shaggy neck. As the rest of her siblings caught up, Arya rested her cheek on Nymeria’s head. She loved each of them, in their own unique ways, but Jon would always be her favorite. None of her brothers could ever replace Jon. He’d been her entire world as a little girl, her constant guide and champion. Her training in Braavos never would have happened without his input.

“... said you ended up in King’s Landing? Missed your train ride home.”

Sansa sat frozen across the room. Her eyes sought out Arya, clear blue and glazed with fear. 

“It was a last minute invite,” Arya lied, staring Robb right in the eye. “Jon mentioned not seeing all of us for Christmas, so Daenerys told him to invite us. Only Sansa’s close enough to make it down that quick.”

Her explanation seemed to put an end to the queries, but something shifted in Sansa’s expression. Her jaw tightened with a stern sort of courage Arya had rarely seen on her.

“No, that wasn’t it. Arya, you don’t have to cover for me anymore. I—” Sansa faltered as everyone turned to look at her. Even the wolves fell silent. “Jeyne and I broke up. I needed someone, so Jon brought me to his place.”

“You and—”

“ _ I knew it! _ ”

Rickon’s triumphant shout was muffled by Shaggydog’s fur. Bran, too, seemed unfazed by Sansa’s announcement. He raised one eyebrow in acknowledgement, rubbing Summer’s belly as Robb and Margaery exchanged a silent look.

“You’re okay? I mean, you two have—I’m assuming you’ve been together for a while?”

“I’m…” Sansa shrugged, and a crack appeared in the cool exterior she’d been presenting for the past few days. “We were together for three years, and I’m… well, I’m gay. Don’t make a big deal about it, okay? And  _ don’t _ tell Mother and Father. I haven’t… they don’t know yet.”

“Sure, of course.” Robb eased his arm around Sansa’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

“We did wonder,” Margaery told her, all smiles. “Well, I did.”

“Did  _ everyone _ know?” Sansa gazed around at all of their unsurprised faces. “Or did Jon—or Arya—”

“Course we didn’t,” Arya snapped.

Margaery, however, took Sansa’s hands in hers. “Sweetheart, I grew up with Loras, remember?”

Sansa gave a watery laugh of relief, and the conversation drifted onward. Arya kept her ears open for it, trained to listen as Syrio had been teaching her, but her mind was elsewhere. Down south, in the enormous red-bricked castle where Jon was staying. He’d missed so many Christmases now that Arya had lost count. His last appearance had been Vasectomy Christmas, ending in a terrible fight that had sent Jon out the door. Jon’s absence was like a hollow in her chest, carved out and vast.

“And then—who’s phone’s that?”

Arya jumped at the always strange feeling of her phone vibrating against her thigh. When she pulled it out, Jon’s saved picture—of the pair of them making faces from his birthday party—was on the screen.

“It’s Jon!”

The rest of the Starks scrambled around her as she answered. At once, a bright room filled the screen, blotted by Jon’s dark curls and whiskers. He grinned at her.

“Hey, little sister.”

“Oi, what about me?”

Jon laughed, and his eyes went squinty. “How’s it, Rickon?”

“Bloody awful. They all keep— _ ouch! _ ”

“Nice one,” Jon called to Bran. “Happy Christmas, guys.”

The greeting was returned as Arya shifted to get all of them into view for Jon. Across Winterfell’s grounds, the old clock tower chimed midnight. Then someone appeared at the edge of Jon’s image, seemed hesitant to approach. He turned away from them for a moment, and his smile could have dimmed the sun.

“No, come on, they’re dying to meet you, Dany.” 

Jon offered his hand to the person off screen, and a slim, pale one took it. Arya watched this newcomer critically, the graceful movements, the silky-looking silver-gold hair damp from a shower, the hopeful smile as Daenerys Targaryen slid into the armchair with her favorite brother. She wore a baggy sweatshirt that Arya recognized at once—she’d bought it for Jon during her first trip to Braavos. A great lagoon covered the chest, the Titan of Braavos climbing from it’s depths, sword raised to the sky.

“Everyone, this is Daenerys. Dany, these are my brothers and sisters.” Jon named each of them, and Arya offered a small wave at her name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Princess,” Robb said, as he kicked Rickon in the shin, but it did no good.

“She’s your girlfriend, right? Right, Jon?” Rickon shoved his way closer, ogling the pair. “Are you gonna marry him or what?”

“ _ Rickon! _ ”

Daenerys only laughed as they scolded him.

“I might. A royal marriage is a rather more complicated decision than a standard one.” She glanced at Jon beside her, and Arya relaxed then. Her smile matched Jon’s, so bright and content Arya was certain there was no lie in her. “But we’ve discussed it.”

Arya saw Robb’s eyebrows lift, but he didn’t ask further. They’d save that for their group text, when they all badgered Jon over the coming days.

“How’s the Red Keep then? Sansa didn’t say much on that.”

“You didn’t ask,” Sansa reminded her.

Jon gave a shrug. “Big, impressive. Dragonstone was a bit more exciting, I think.” He shared a secret smile with Daenerys. “Is Father awake still?”

“He was when we got here,” Robb answered. “He’s still sleeping in the office downstairs. We’re—”

“With the wolves,” Jon finished, eyeing the edges of the screen. He seemed disappointed by the answer before shaking it off. “Anyway, I just wanted to wish you all a Happy Christmas before bed. I’ll call tomorrow when you’re all opening presents, okay? And you better take care of what I got you, little sister,” he added to Arya. “Cost me half my arm to get it made.”

Her interest was immediately peaked. “What is it?” she demanded. “Don’t shake your head!”

“You’ll see in the morning.”

They said their goodnights to Jon and Daenerys, then glanced around at each other. The wolves were yawning. Lady had already returned to her kennel and curled up for the night.

“Come on,” Robb said, waving a commanding hand toward the door to the bridge. “Let’s get to bed before Mother catches you all.”

Reluctantly, Bran and Rickon encouraged Summer and Shaggydog back into their kennels. Arya took one look at Nymeria’s fierce amber gaze and shut the empty kennel’s door.

“Arya, Mother won’t—”

“She’s staying with me tonight,” Arya told Robb, “and if Mother doesn’t like it, then she can try and drag Nymeria out here.”

Nobody dared to argue. They trooped back to the main keep, locking the doors behind them. Robb and Margaery departed toward the right hallway for the larger bedrooms, Grey Wind panting at their heels. Arya followed the other three to the left,. They passed Jon’s old room and Robb’s too. Sansa, Bran, and Rickon shut themselves away with mumbled goodnights, but Arya paused at her door, chewing her lip. Nymeria pressed her head against her palm.

Jon would call tomorrow, of course, but the odds of privacy, of him getting a chance to really talk to Father, with Mother right there…

She made up her mind, continuing down the hall on her toes, Nymeria a great, silent shadow at her side. If she caught Father still up, they could call Jon together, have a real conversation. They made it past Mother’s shut door and down the stairs to the ground floor. Everything was dark except for a night light in the bathroom and a crack of bright amber at the bottom of Father’s office door. Arya crept closer and found the door was slightly ajar, a seam of golden light spilling into the hall.

“This is his  _ mother _ . His entire  _ life _ . Jon doesn’t—”

Arya froze. Her heart thundered up her throat as she inched closer, curiosity and surprise like a rash itching over her skin. Nymeria brushed her hip.

She’d never heard Father mention Jon’s mother, not once in almost eighteen years. None of them had, except Jon, and perhaps Mother. Arya was certain that Catelyn had a rough idea of who Jon’s mother was, that Father had offered some sort of explanation upon his return to Winterfell so many years ago, with an infant Jon nestled in his arms. But she’d never spoken about it. For her part, Catelyn Stark had always treated Jon like the worst shame that had ever existed. It was the one thing Arya could never quite forgive, now that she was older. The one fear that each of them seemed to keep locked quietly inside themselves, wondering if some day Mother might turn away from them, too.

“Howland, I am. I know I have to and I… gods, we were so close. But Jon didn’t come home this year, and I will  _ not _ tell him this over the phone. He deserves to have me look him in the eye when he learns—”

Arya peered through the cracked doorway. She could just see Father seated on the edge of the bed they’d wedged into the downstairs office, a bright patch of white where Ghost lay beside him.

What did Howland Reed have to do with Jon’s mother? And what was important enough about her to put that edge in Ned’s voice?

“I will, yes, you know I will. I’ve asked him twice already, but I’ll make sure you’re here when he comes. I know he’ll be grateful to have you there when I tell him... See if I can’t get him up here on a visit, the doctors still don’t want me traveling... Right... Happy Christmas to you, too.”

Ned hung up the phone with a sigh. Mind still churning with possibilities, Arya wasn’t quick enough to stop Nymeria from shoving her way into the office. Her wolf bounded over to the bed and tackled a sleeping Ghost where he lay. Instead of wrestling like she did with Grey Wind, Nymeria gave her brother a few gentle ear nips, then flopped down beside him.

“I thought I’d heard something in the hall,” Father said as Arya stepped into the office. He’d grown thinner than ever these last few months. His loose skin seemed to droop like a basset hound’s, still a sickly pale hue. His legs and arms shook if he stood for too long. “You best get to bed or the Night’s King won’t be able to deliver your presents.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “The Night’s King is for babies, Pop. I’m too old for that.”

“Shut the door then, if you want to join me for a nightcap.”

She grinned and did as she was bid, then perched herself on the desk chair facing Ned. He took a bottle of wine from the ornate table beside the desk and poured her a cup. For his own, he topped off a glass of water. 

Arya stared down at hers, miffed. “That’s barely a sip!”

“And you’re still underage for another two months,” Ned reminded her. “Go on, try it.”

She grimaced as it hit her tongue, but it was down her throat and warming her belly a moment later. “Gross. Why do you drink that?”

“I don’t anymore,” he reminded her, toasting her with his glass of water. Then he glanced at the pair of wolves dozing beside him. “Nymeria’s supposed to be in the kennels, Arya.”

“And?”

He only chuckled at her defiance. “Don’t let your mother see her. But if she wakes the whole castle tonight, be it on your head.”

Arya could accept that. She set her cup down, and twirled in the desk chair, spinning with a few kicks of her toes. His expression was as tired and grim as ever, but a sadness was etched there now, one she couldn’t quite place.

“You were talking about Jon’s mother.”

His expression tightened. “Yes, I was. There are things… I’d hoped he would come home for Christmas so we could talk about her. That’s all.”

“And Howland needs to be here when you do?”

Somehow, he managed to go paler than before. Ned’s cheek twitched, his eyes darting toward the closed office door. “Put it from your mind, Arya. I just want to share some things with Jon about her, that’s all.”

But unlike Daenerys’s eyes, there was a lie in her father’s gaze. Arya glowered at him, unconvinced, but not sure how to dig further without being sent away. Instead she settled on, “But Jon said you’d told him about her, like her name and his birth certificate when he was a kid. That he’d asked you and you’d told him all there was to tell.”

“I—Arya…” His face fell into melancholy, so palpable and burdensome, that Arya almost expected him to collapse like he had at Jon’s. “You remind me so much of your aunt sometimes, you know that?”

“Aunt Lysa?” Arya made a face. “That old  _ bat _ ?”

All at once, the morose expression turned into a wide smile and laughter. “My sister, not your mother’s. You’re… gods, you’re so much like her sometimes. That defiance and temper and all the questions. Lyanna was…” He paused for so long that Arya thought he was couldn’t bring himself to go on. Every time he mentioned Lyanna Stark, he struggled to speak. After several minutes, he let out a shaky breath and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You and Jon, you’ve both got her spirit. I look at him sometimes and… gods, I’ve messed it all up.”

Arya watched him as his face crumbled. Discomfort filled her, and a odd sense of dread that she couldn’t place. Whenever Father had talked about his sister before, it was always some fun story from his childhood. About the sister who used to knock him and Benjen about with wooden swords in the godswood. To tell Arya or Jon or Bran a tale of the vibrant young girl who’d gotten in way more trouble for the same thing they’d just done. While Father had always been bright-eyed and sad during those stories, he’d never been this heartbroken.

“Pop?”

Tears lined his cheeks. Ghost rose up behind him and rested his shaggy head on Ned’s shoulder. Her father gave a start and wiped his face.

“You should get to bed, it’s late. I’m sure we’ll all be up at dawn if Rickon has his way.”

“Are you okay?”

Her plans to call Jon were forgotten. Arya caught Ned’s elbow to steady him, but he only waved her off.

“Go on, bed. I’m all right.”

Still, Arya lingered long enough to help him take his pile of medications and tuck him into bed. She sat at the desk, Nymeria at her side, while Ghost curled up with Father as he drifted off to sleep. 

His tears had unsettled her in a way nothing else ever had. Father had only cried twice that she could recall. Once, the night Jon had been taken to Castle Black despite two months of endless court battles to get his sentence lessen. The second time had been when Lieutenant Commander Tully had called about Robb and Jon’s accident, to tell them they were both hovering on the point of a dagger—that Jon or Robb could both be lost to them forever.

She was missing something. Something that should be as enormous as an elephant, but instead looked as tiny as ant. And here she was, staring down at it from the top of a skyscraper without a telescope.

Arya gave Ghost a good scratch behind each ear and a kiss on his soft forehead. “Keep him safe, boy. And you, too, Jon. I’ve got a mystery to solve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When will the next update be? Who knows?
> 
> The end of April is almost here, and I suspect it's very unlikely I'll get another chapter up and finished in the next... four days lol. So, not this Tuesday, but the following Tuesday, May 7th, I'll be updating (I hope) The Dragons' Song. Going back to rotating for a bit, if I can manage it.
> 
> So next Embers update will be the Tuesday after that! (And then my mom's wedding at the end of May might destroy my scheduling intentions, but we'll see).
> 
> But thank you thank you thank you, as always, for all of your lovely kind words and appreciation for this story. It makes the monster task of writing it a lot more fun! 
> 
> And--we're approaching the reveal soon! Less than 10 chapters away... time to panic! You'll probably notice that some of these next few chapters will be on the shorter side. Not all of them, but some of them as we sprint toward Ned telling Jon the truth about his mama.
> 
> Cheers until next time!


	21. RHAEGAR II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blop, we early. And after that, uh, "episode", hopefully this'll pick up some spirits. Unfortunately, it's Rhaegar, and he's a sad sack, so it'll be a slight heave out of the despair pit. As opposed to a rocket launching you into the clouds. Baby step, I guess. (They did everyone so dirty, kids. Run and don't ever look back.) :/
> 
> Also, a brief note: there's a short discussion of mental illness in this chapter, just as a heads up!
> 
> Enjoy????

 

* * *

 

 

January brought King’s Landing its first snowfall in three years. 

As the smallfolk did their best to dig out, the Targaryens spent the New Year in the safety and comfort of the Red Keep. Rhaegar enjoyed watching the people from the high windows, enraptured with their joy and delight at the unexpected powder decorating their walkways and cars and homes. Down in the pale, snowy streets children shouted their joy, heaved snowballs at everything in sight. 

Once, he would have been the young, bright prince who snuck out to join them. With Ser Barristan at his side, exasperated but amused, before Ser Arthur had taken over as his guard in his teenage years. Wintry days in his early adulthood had meant Rhaenys tumbling about the courtyard in the fine white heaps, too young yet to walk. Elia’s sheer awe that same day. Both his girls, witnessing snow for the first and only time. Their looks of wonder had left a treasured mark on his heart. Every snowfall, Rhaegar thought of them. 

While the city shoveled out, Daenerys and Rhaella prepared for their departure for Dorne. Mid-January brought the first of the year’s annual trips. As the warmest province, Dorne was a welcome relief in the deep cold of winter, one that Rhaegar usually greeted with some semblance of excitement. This year, however, he would not be in attendance. The winter holidays had left him drained and listless, but more importantly, it was Daenerys’s time to lead. His sister would be the guiding force as she and Rhaella celebrated the coming of a new year. This first for Daenerys marked another step on her path toward the throne and queendom. Rhaegar had no doubts she would succeed. 

More than anything, Rhaegar was grateful for the escape, the impending solitude their departure meant. Guards and advisors, half the maids and serving staff, everyone but himself and Ser Arthur, would be gone.

Only Jon Snow would remain behind in King’s Landing. Rhaegar eyed the boy as he and Daenerys crossed the bridge from the royal apartments of Maegor’s holdfast, arm and arm, and far too in love. Jon had arrived the night before after a shift at his fire station, to spend Dany’s last night together before the royal party departed for their two week trip.

“I don’t believe that!”

Dany’s laughter flowed through the open doorway as the pair arrived behind him, cheerful and melodic at whatever story Jon had been telling, her eyes bright and soft. Jon’s mouth quirked like the sharp point of a knife aimed for Rhaegar’s heart.

_ Lyanna’s smile. Must he always be her shadow? _

“I’m telling you, he did. You’ve met Tormund, the man’s a menace. You think he wouldn’t charge into the middle of a bar fight and  _ not _ start trying to give everyone a lapdance?”

They both laughed this time, took some of the terrible pressure in Rhaegar’s chest with the sound. Jon was her very image in a hundred nuanced, intricate ways, but his laughter was his own. His eyes were too dark, his face too lean. The boy was not Lyanna’s son, no matter how much Rhaegar tried to find her in him.

“Should I even ask who this Tormund is?”

Dany and Jon glanced at him, then laughed louder. His laugh was his, but the crinkle of Jon’s face was Lyanna once again. Rhaegar swallowed and turned to the group across the hall. Rhaella was speaking quietly with Tyrion and Varys, exchanging a few last minute preparations before their departure.

“Perhaps I’ll introduce you to him some day,” Jon offered, once their laughter settled. “He’s a wild one, but a good friend. Loyal.”

_ Loyal in all the ways I fell short of. You’d have such a laugh at me acknowledging that, wouldn’t you, Lyanna? Would you thrill in seeing your nephew remind me of just how far I needed to fall? _

“Rhaegar?”

Daenerys’s hand squeezed his forearm. Concern filled her eyes, and Rhaegar cursed himself. Holidays always left him as exposed as a broken bone jutting through flesh, but this year had been far worse. He glanced at Jon’s long, solemn face, now void of that agonizing smile. The boy was kind and considerate and everything Daenerys might ever need. All that should matter was that, and yet, Jon’s very existence seemed an endless bane on his own. Just looking at Jon made his stomach knot with guilt. He wanted nothing more than to know Jon Snow, to forge a relationship with his sister’s future husband, but every second together wound his every fantasy higher and brighter. Until the truth before him was blinded, and all he could see was the son he could never deserve to have.

“I’m fine, Daenerys, only tired. Sleep has not come easy of late.”

“Oh, we can postpone our day then,” Jon offered, frowning. “I’m fine with sparring and doing lunch another day, if you’d rather rest.”

Daenerys touched Rhaegar’s cheek, turned his face to examine him. He was already aware that he looked a mess. Grayish stubble on his pale cheeks and upper lip—a beard he’d never worn to hide how patchy its growth was on his jaw. Purpled bruises rested under his eyes, his face pinched and worn. Ever since Elia and Rhaenys and Aegon, his health had been a roller coaster.

“You should rest,” Dany told him. “Are you taking your…”

She glanced at the many people around the hall, especially at Jon’s curious look, and merely raised her eyebrows. Rumors of his poor mental health had circulated for years, though few were allowed the truth. Depression, anxiety, he’d carried them both since his boyhood. What life had brought him had only exacerbated both, left him with an unpredictable pattern of lows and highs.

Some days, medication was enough. And others, when he’d been content for too long and forgot to take them, he stumbled hard.

“Everything’s fine,” Rhaegar assured her. And it was, as far as his medications were concerned. But some things could not be bettered by daily pills. He’d learned that long ago. “Go on, this is your first big trip. Your first time leading an annual visit. Being late won’t make a good impression. You know how Oberyn can be.”

She smiled at that, kissed him on the cheek and hugged him tight. After, her and Jon said their own private goodbyes. Chest to chest, cradling the other’s face in their hands. Kissing and smiling and supporting one another. They made a great team. A beautiful image, too.

Tyrion finally pulled Daenerys away, playing the role of exasperated advisor, though he couldn’t help but smile at their young love. As the rest departed, Jon hung back with Rhaegar and Ser Arthur. None of them spoke until the royal party’s footsteps had faded.

“It really is fine if you want to rest today,” Jon repeated, turning to him. “I’m sure Davos wouldn’t mind having me in earlier.”

Rhaegar considered him. For a moment, he almost agreed to Jon’s offering. Being rid of the boy, of the reminders and the heartache that bubbled up so raw and crisp at the sight of him, would be cathartic. But every chance Rhaegar had to be near him, only made him crave Jon’s presence more. It was unhealthy, he knew. Foolish and naive. Ser Arthur had already reprimanded him twice over the holidays to take care of himself, to put distance where it was needed and yet…

When Rhaegar met Jon’s earnest eyes, he let himself be drawn in. 

“No, I want to spend the day together. It’s important that we get to know one another,” Rhaegar said. “Though you may have to spar Ser Arthur. I’m in no shape to keep up with either of you anymore.”

Jon grinned at that, but his smiled faltered when he caught sight of Rhaegar’s face. Try as he might, Rhaegar could feel how painfully forced his smile was. He was certain then that Jon must think him dishonest, or even that Rhaegar loathed him. How could Jon not be suspicious with the way he always acted around him?

“Come on. It’s time you experienced the Red Keep’s training facility.”

He settled a loose arm around Jon’s shoulders in an attempt to assure them both. Ser Arthur’s tight frown told Rhaegar how unsuccessful he was. 

Their trip across the quiet castle was mired with history. Rhaegar couldn’t stomach silences around Jon, nor anything that gave him the opportunity to linger on thoughts of Lyanna. Instead, he gave Jon more information than was needed. He told him of the portraits they passed, the sculptures and statues, even who had ordered the construction of different rooms and their remodels over the centuries. Jon was attentive and thoughtful, just as he’d been on Dragonstone. Whether he was as interested as Daenerys had been as a girl, Rhaegar couldn’t say, but the promise of Jon trying was enough.

“And this used to be a smaller hall for feasts,” Rhaegar said as he keyed in a security code on the private training facility door. Only the royal family and their personal guards had access to this space. All others used a separated facility outside of Maegor’s holdfast, though still in the Red Keep. “Now, it’s a training facility. It was Viserys’s idea, many years ago.”

Inside, the room was long and high-ceilinged. Much like Dragonstone’s facility, the space was split between a standard gym with cardio and strength equipment and a large sparring mat with a tiered set of seats for visitors. Jon gazed at it all in delight, his eyes sparkling to match that gut-wrenching smile.

“It’s fantastic,” Jon told him. He examined a nearby rack of free weights. “You said this was Viserys’s idea? Your brother?”

Rhaegar’s nod was curt. They never talked about Viserys if they could avoid it. Mother, most especially, refused to mention her second son’s arduous and destructive teenage years. He’d been all but written out of their histories now.

“It was.” Rhaegar stepped in after him, Ser Arthur on his heels. The door was shut and locked behind them. “One of his best.”

Jon nodded as he tested one of the free weights with a few bicep curls. He seemed to be hovering on the cusp of asking something, and Rhaegar had to wonder if Daenerys had ever mentioned or explained Viserys’s mental health at all.

“Dany’s only mentioned him once, in passing,” Jon offered as he set the weight down. “If… if you don’t mind me asking, Your Grace, what happened to him? It was all so hushed up, and it’s none of my business, I know, but…”

“Most still call it madness, what’s become of him,” Rhaegar said, brow furrowed. “I don’t think ‘madness’ has the measure of it, of course. It’s just a simple, inaccurate way to describe what people don’t want to take the time to understand. To distance themselves from such things. In Viserys’s case, he’s mentally ill. Quite severely.” 

“And he’s in Harrenhal still?” Jon seemed uncertain, almost tentative. “To get well or…”

“Mental illnesses runs in our family, much like heart disease or cancer does in others,” Rhaegar explained. “Viserys, unfortunately, seemed to hit the genetic lottery for all of them. An anxiety disorder, manic depressive, narcissistic personality disorder, too. The same paranoia that drove Aerys into shambles. Viserys became so destructive in his late teens that Harrenhal was the best place for him. He’s a danger to others, but mostly to himself. He refuses treatments and therapy beyond a few days or weeks. None of us have seen him in years. I still get updates on his condition, but nothing ever changes.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Rhaegar swallowed. “It’s fine, Jon. I miss the little brother I watched grow up, but it’s hard to forget the man he became. The threats and violence and the alcoholism he fell into later. Cruelty was something my father taught him very early on, and his worsening mental health only let that out more and more. Hoping that Viserys may some day return to us is futile, I think. Only he can make that choice now.”

Jon nodded, though he looked as if he regretted his questions. Instead, he headed for the display of sparring equipment and picked up a pair of balanced practice swords.

“So which of you is going to knock me on my ass first?”

They dueled once to start the morning, though Jon made such quick work on him, Rhaegar was almost embarrassed. He sat the rest of the spars out, instead retiring in the tiered seats to watch Ser Arthur and Jon. 

Together, Jon and Ser Arthur danced from one corner to the next, like two opposing winds trying to join as a tornadic spiral. Jon’s dull blade flashed under the lights, his movements elegant and swift, his body in perfect alignment. Lyanna was in his quickness, his balance and fierce cuts and jabs. Rhaegar hated himself for still seeing her, for letting her memory retract from who Jon was. Yet, she was there all the same. He and Lyanna had sparred together too many times to fill their months together at Summerhall. Just the pair of them and Ser Arthur. And of course, all their ghosts.

“All right, all right, yield!” Jon clutched his side where Ser Arthur had finally whacked him. “I yield.”

Despite being proclaimed the victor, Ser Arthur dropped to a knee. He was drenched in sweat, panting and rasping. Jon might have only jogged down a long hall for all the recovery time he needed. Within a minute, he was calmed, taking the seat at Rhaegar’s side.

“For the winning duelist, you seem quite defeated,” Rhaegar called to his oldest friend.

Ser Arthur lifted his head, wrenched his mouth open, and let out an exhausted wheeze. He only managed to splutter a few indistinct words before giving up. Jon chuckled and wiped his face on his shirt.

“I’m going to shower before lunch, if that’s okay?”

“Please. Take Arthur with you. I can smell him from here.”

“No, you… can’t.” Ser Arthur wheezed again. “ _ Ugh _ .”

 

* * *

 

Lunch was a simple affair in Rhaegar’s chambers. With Jon and Ser Arthur changed and refreshed, the three gathered amicably around Rhaegar’s solar table. Jon insisted the sworn shield join them as a companion instead of a guard. They ate and talked their way through three courses, finally ending on a delectable lemon tart. Some of Lyanna’s traces had vanished with the afternoon. The sunlight too golden on Jon’s dark curls, his expressions taking less and less of Rhaegar’s memories and romanticizing them, his careful storytelling not as meandering as Lyanna’s had been.

By the meal’s end, Rhaegar felt as close to happy as he had since the height of summer. Relaxed, calmer, enjoying the company of the young man next to him instead of haunting flashes of another. 

Jon’s phone chimed as their empty plates and bowls were cleared away. 

“I need to take this, if that’s fine?”

“Of course.”

Jon stepped across the room, but even so, Rhaegar still caught snatches of the conversation. A visit to Oldtown, a date and time for an appointment in March, a vague mention of recovery times for a procedure. When Jon returned to the table, he seemed in a state of anxious shock. Ser Arthur cleared his throat and stood, returning to the stoic guard at Rhaegar’s back.

“Is everything all right, Jon?”

“I—oh, yeah. It’s great.”

“Does your father need another procedure?”

Jon startled at the very mention of Lord Eddard. “Oh, no, he’s fine. This is… well, its an appointment for me. To hopefully rectify a mistake I made several years ago.”

His confusion must have shown, for Jon took a steady breath, waited for the serving man to shut the door and his footsteps to fade away before he spoke.

“I had a vasectomy when I was eighteen”

Jon seemed braced for an explosion. Some sort of reprimand or ridicule, but Rhaegar, despite his surprise, asked the most pressing question.

“Does Daenerys know?”

“She does. I told her a while ago. My family knows, too. And Davos. He’s got full medical histories on all of us at the fire station. I’m going to have the reversal procedure done in the spring. I wanted to have it as part of my Valentine’s Day surprise for Dany. Just the appointment card and to let her know I’m taking that step. That I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay, if she wants that with me.”

His earnestness hit Rhaegar like a kick to the chest. Jon watched him, ready to defend himself from Rhaegar’s wrath or disappointment. But for, Rhaegar, Jon’s decisions were far too familiar.

“I think she’ll like that,” Rhaegar said, trying to be careful with his words, but meeting Jon’s gaze pushed him right over the edge. “She doesn’t know it, but I had a vasectomy as well many years ago.”

Jon’s mouth fell open. “But—how did—you’re the  _ crown _ prince!”

Rhaegar smiled ruefully at his disbelief. “Yes, Mother was quite furious when I finally told her.”

“But you had kids.” Jon seemed utter flabbergasted by their shared secret. “You and Princess Elia, you had two kids.”

“So we did,” Rhaegar agreed. “It wasn’t until after their deaths that I had the procedure. About the same age as you are now, I suppose. I could stomach the idea of another marriage. Not after… well, after what happened to Rhaenys and Aegon, I couldn’t bear the thought of having another child of my blood brought into the world for the same fate.”

_ Two wives and two children lost was enough. _

He’d convinced himself that never having children again was the only choice left of him. Without Elia and Lyanna, the idea of finding someone else, with Aerys still living, had been just another added grief. So he’d made the choice, hadn’t told Rhaella he’d done it until Daenerys was almost eleven when she’d begun, once more, to pester him after finding a suitable wife. It was his duty, his sworn purpose as the future king. Telling Rhaella had been like drinking week old coffee: bitter and coarse, left his stomach in spasming knots.  She’d been furious, distraught, her plans for a future after she was gone tilted into the unknown. 

How could he ever hope to be king with no heir to follow? 

What would the realm think if he was passed over in favor of Daenerys?

Across the table, Jon had fallen somewhere between understanding and suspicion. With a jolt, Rhaegar realized only too late his mistake. Talking with Jon put him as at ease as a steaming bath. His shoulders hunched in as Jon’s narrowed eyes watched him.

“Their deaths were an accident,” Jon said slowly. “That plane crash, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. A malfunction brought the plane down, along with a storm.”

He didn’t phrase it as such, but Rhaegar heard the questioning note in Jon’s voice. For a long time, he couldn’t bring himself to respond. Every second of silence only seemed to worsen Jon’s certainty, brought a depth of fear to his eyes that Rhaegar had never seen before.

“It was an  _ accident _ ,” Jon said again. “Wasn’t it?”

Ser Arthur shifted behind him, but still Rhaegar’s voice stuck in his throat. Daenerys had been told now, the rest of their royal advisors knew the truth, too. But Jon… there’d been no reason to bring him into that secret. Nor any of the countless others still hidden from his sight.

“Answer me.”

Rhaegar should have scolded Jon for his tone, reminded him to whom he was speaking. Instead, he flinched at those words. Despite the deep resonance of Jon’s voice, the accent and inflections were as northern as Lyanna’s had ever been, and not unlike her tone when in a temper, Jon’s voice grew sharp and forceful, too. Fear fed the wolf in him, as it always had with Lyanna.

“It wasn’t,” Rhaegar admitted quietly. “A lot of things under my father’s reign were far removed from the realm of accident.”

“And public knowledge,” Jon said, a bite to his voice. “Who? Who would do that? Are they still a threat? Are you and Dany still in danger? And if—when Dany and I… will our children be at risk of the same thing, too?”

“No.” Rhaegar’s voice had become a hoarse rasp. “No, not from him. Not like my family was. Aerys is gone.”

Jon let out a hard breath, but the spike of fear in his eyes slowly gave way to a disbelieving horror. In some ways, it was endearing to see Jon already so protective of Dany, and of the future family they might build together. But Rhaegar could scarcely do more than take note of it, as Elia’s voice drifted across his mind. She’d always come across as gentle, sweet, kind, but her voice had held a deep somberness that had spoken to her true wit and intellect. Even then, on that final day, his first wife had mistrusted their plans.

_ “I don’t like us being separated,” Elia muttered. Behind her, Rhaenys was giving Ser Lewyn chase, trying her best to wrap herself around his leg. “Something is not  _ right _ , Rhaegar. Let them stay with you, here. At least Rhaenys, she never leaves your side. He can’t—” _

_ “And if he hires someone else to poison me again? Or to sneak into my chambers or hers? I won’t risk that again. Not with any of you.” _

_ Elia pursed her lips to keep them from trembling. “We may be no safer in Dorne.” _

_ “I pray you all will be safest as far from me as possible.” _

_ They watched the last of the luggage be carried onto the royal aircraft. Rhaenys finally caught her prey, dangling from Ser Lewyn’s leg as they returned to Rhaegar and Elia’s side. _

_ “You’re worse than that kitten of yours.” _

_ “Rawr! I’m Balerion the Dread Kitten!”  _

_ Rhaenys attempted to climb further of the knight’s leg, but Rhaegar scooped her up instead. She gave an excited squeal as he tossed her in the air, catching her as the evening sunlight turned her brown hair golden. _

_ “Are you going to miss me, little dragon?” _

_ When Rhaenys’s only answer was a beaming smile, Rhaegar hugged her to his chest and peppered her face with kisses. After several minutes of tickling and laughter, his daughter settled. He held her tight, let her bop his nose, then kiss it better. _

_ “You come later, Papa?” _

_ “Next week, I promise.” _

_ They said their goodbyes with several kisses and smiles, then Rhaenys was gone, racing up the stairs into the waiting plane. Ser Lewyn followed. _

_ “I’d feel better with you away from him, too.” Elia shifted little Aegon in her arms. He was already asleep, would wake in Dorne with his uncles and cousins to dote on him. This time tomorrow, he’d be splashing away in the water gardens. _

_ “You’ll all be fine,” Rhaegar assured her. He leaned in to kiss the wisps of silver-gold hair on Aegon’s head.  “We’ve gone out of our way to make sure everyone knows I’ll be arriving later. By tonight, you and Aegon and Rhaenys will be safe at Sunspear, and Oberyn will be teaching Rhaenys every swear word he knows.” _

“My prince?”

Somehow, he’d ended up on the couch. Rhaegar squinted around, his chest clenching frantically, Rhaenys’s laughter like the pounding of his heart. But it was only Ser Arthur’s aged face beside him, and Jon Snow’s concerned, pinched expression. His children had been gone for over twenty years, nothing more than the pattering of their ghostly feet remained.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Jon said, and he squeezed Rhaegar’s hand. The feeling of Jon’s strong grip rooted Rhaegar back to the present. “I’m sorry. I… the thought of Dany or my own… I’m sorry for being so tactless.”

Rhaegar could only shake his head. He sat up slowly, his bones popping, his clothes stuck to sweaty skin. Ser Arthur and Jon both held him upright as his vision swam. Across the room, the remains of his cup was seeping over the table cloth and dripping onto the floor.

“It’s fine. It… I’ll never escape that day, Jon. No matter how long I might live, the day I saw them off on that plane with never stop haunting me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it? I knew what Aerys was already capable of, I’d nearly been murdered at his orders half a dozen times by then. Being blind to the idea that he would never harm his grandchildren unless I was present…”

Jon clutched his hand a little tighter. “He’s gone. Nobody will ever be hurt by him again.”

_ He will always hurt us, even if his physical body is gone. His secrets and cruelty will scar our family until its end. _

“Elia never trusted him,” Rhaegar said after a moment. “Not even the first day she arrived here for us to meet as part of our betrothal. We were so young then. Viserys hadn’t even been born yet. Fourteen, yet already my life was designed until my last breath. I hoped to give my children more freedom than I was allowed, with marriage if nothing else, but Elia...”

“She wanted her children to be allowed their own lives?”

“Elia refused every order Aerys gave. Every expectation, she subverted. Rhaenys and Aegon were her pride and joy, she was fiercely protective. Worked tirelessly to make sure they were more than simply heirs to the throne. We agreed—well, she cornered me into it, truthfully, but we decided they would be allowed to direct their own lives, whichever paths they found of interest, would be theirs to pursue. Even if they left royal life behind.”

Jon’s smile was sad, but understanding. “She sounded like a wonderful person.”

“She was the best partner I could have asked for. A true friend, a loving companion.”

“Did you love her? I mean, like…”

“Not the way you love Dany, no.”

_ Nor the way I tried to love Lyanna. _

“But in other ways?”

“Yes. Perhaps not in the ways she wanted or deserved, but we cherished each other. Especially after Rhaenys was born. She cemented us together, as one, for the rest of our days. Mother doted on them, she was never happier than as a grandmother. And Aerys… who would ever think to harm such a vibrant little girl?”

“A monster.” The conviction in Jon’s voice made Rhaegar turn to him. When their eyes met, a fire burned in Jon’s gaze, harsh and determined. “The blame and the responsibility are his, not yours. Not your choices or bad luck and anything else. Aerys did that. He… he  _ murdered _ …”

Rhaegar reached forward and grasped Jon’s shoulder where the boy kneeled before him. 

“I was never the same after,” Rhaegar told him. “Even as a boy, I struggled with depression, anxiety. But when I got the news of the plane going down, and rushed to head south, Aerys just laughed. Then he told me what he’d done. Right there, across the dinner table with my mother beside us. I don’t think she’s ever cried and hit him the way she did that night. I had to see it, the wreckage and the bodies they found, to belief it. Lost my head completely, ran off into the Stormlands for half a year and met…”

Lyanna’s name was on his tongue when Ser Arthur’s hand gripped his shoulder. His oldest friend gave him a firm shake that might have looked like comfort, but it jarred Rhaegar from that wild race into the forests. They hadn’t even stopped to take a car, wandering on foot from Storm’s End, taking two horses from an old farmer’s stable. Summerhall had been sunken in dust and plastic renovation tarps when they arrived. Somewhere between demolished and boarded up for a never ending winter, but a sanctuary all the same. In his grief and frantic horror, Lyanna had appeared, sword in hand as they intruded on her hiding place.

For those few short months, they’d created their own fantasy, strange and broken and blinding in its wonder.

“You should rest, my prince.” Ser Arthur’s protective grip tightened. “Jon, you should—”

“I’ll go. My shift starts soon anyway.” Jon stood up, but his face betrayed his concern and guilt. “I apologize for upsetting you, Your Grace. It was not my intention, nor to raise my voice. It was out of line.”

“Rhaegar. Call me by my name, Jon.”

“Of course, Rhaegar. If that’s what you wish.”

_ It’s the farther thing from what I might wish if I knew a single wish could be made true. _

With Ser Arthur’s assistance, Rhaegar regained his feet. Jon remained, however, seemed to be mulling something over, biting his lip.

“You’ll be late if you linger,” Rhaegar reminded him. “It’s a long way down to the nearest subway station.”

Jon only nodded, glanced at him, then turned away. He was at the closed door, when he spoke again.

“Is it him I remind you of?”

Rhaegar might have missed a step going down stairs. He stumbled, would have fallen if not for Ser Arthur’s continued support.

“Of Aegon, I mean. Not…” Jon worried his lip again. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I see the way you look at me sometimes. It’s the same way my father looks at me. Like he’s being haunted by a ghost he can’t escape from, like one more look might save him or swallow him whole. Like he can’t decided which would be worse. Aegon and I… he’d be near enough my age, so I just thought…”

Jon bowed his head, ran his tongue over his bottom lip. It was a habit so unlike Lyanna, that Rhaegar was overwhelmed with relief. For one shining moment, the young man before him was as clear as a cloudless night sky. He was Jon Snow entirely.

“Sometimes you do,” Rhaegar said. “Not of him exactly, but of what… what might have been if…” He cleared his throat as Ser Arthur squeezed his shoulder. “Get going, Jon. I’ll see you again when Daenerys returns.”

Jon bowed and made to leave, but Ser Arthur’s voice brought him to a halt.

“Jon? What was discussed today remains in this room. You are not to talk of it to anyone outside of this castle. Do we have your word?”

“I swear it.”

Once he was gone, Rhaegar sank back onto the couch. Ser Arthur locked the door and returned to his side.

“I know, I know. I said too much,” Rhaegar muttered as he buried his face in his hands. “Gods, I just look at him and… I can’t help it.”

He rocked slowly as Ser Arthur took a knee in front of him. 

“Then maybe you should tell him.” Ser Arthur sighed. “After the Queen is informed, of course. She needs to know first. You can’t continue on like this, Rhaegar. When it was just us and your mother and sister, things were simple, but Jon… They’re planning a life together already. He’s going to be here with us, for the rest of our days. I won’t sit by and watch this grief claw its way out of you.”

“No, I can handle it,” Rhaegar insisted. He shook the knight’s hand off. “It’s getting easier, seeing him. Actually seeing Jon and not Lyanna. A few more months—”

“And you’ll have spilled every secret you hold to him.”

Rhaegar clenched his jaw against the sob trying to escape him, but his oldest friend was having none of it. He tipped Rhaegar’s head up until they were looking at each other.

“Tell the Queen when she returns,” Ser Arthur said. “She’ll be furious, but you can’t hold onto this any longer. Come clean to her about marrying Lyanna, marriage certificate filed or not. Stop avoiding the North and the Starks because you think silence can heal this. Twenty-four years of silence hasn’t even made a bandaid. You need to let this out. And maybe… who knows what she might have told Ned right before she died? Her death still haunts him, too, clear as day. Maybe you both need this, can start to heal once this is out in the open.”

“I can’t.”

The scandal might ruin the crown once and for all. A secret wife, a marriage certificate that he’d never filed but had held onto all these years. They’d meant to do it together, to pack up and leave Summerhall, but Rhaegar and Lyanna had not agreed on their next steps. She’d wanted to head north, to settle down around Queenscrown and started their new life together. But for Rhaegar, her presence had been like a veil over the last few months of his life. A softness to ease him back into royal life—a new wife to replace the horror he couldn’t manage to face. Lyanna had been disgusted with his plans. To find, after everything he’d told her of Aerys, Rhaegar still planned to return to King’s Landing. That he simply wished to pick up right where he’d left off with Elia by filling Lyanna in her place.

_ What a naive fool I was. _

“You  _ can _ , Rhaegar, and maybe…” Ser Arthur hesitated, his face troubled. “Tell me something, when you watched Jon fight earlier, and on Dragonstone over the summer, what did you see?”

His question was so out of nowhere, that Rhaegar’s misery was momentarily lifted. He grimaced as he thought back to the morning, and to Dragonstone, too.

“Lyanna, of course. All the times we sparred while we were holed up at Summerhall. The way Jon moves, his balance, the quickness… I see her.” He gave a snort of self-loathing. “I rarely don’t see her when he’s around. Why?”

“Because it wasn’t her I saw this morning,” Ser Arthur told him. “Graceful, poised, quick and strong. Yes, he’s fierce and tireless like her, but it was you I saw in him today. Not Lyanna.”

Rhaegar let out a laugh that was near hysterical. “Me? We’ve been over this, Arthur.”

“I know what we found, but what if—”

“It was decades ago! Do you remember? Do you remember how absolutely crazed I was when I heard about Ned Stark’s illegitimate son? All the searching and boundless digging and parsing timelines to find out if my last desperate hope was right? And what was the result? What good came from any of that?  _ Answer me. _ ”

“He wasn’t your son.” Ser Arthur swallowed. “I recall it as well as you. And moreso, your nervous collapse afterward. You drove yourself into the hospital between Lyanna and Elia and the little ones. Jon’s parentage was what broke you, but… I’m not so blinded by Lyanna as you are, Rhaegar. Hell, I was vehemently against you digging up the boy’s birth information all those years ago. But I can’t deny what’s in front of me. I trained you for half your life. You think I wouldn’t recognize your swordplay in someone else?”

“You’re wrong. Or projecting. Or hoping because I’ve turned into a fucking mess all over again.”

Ser Arthur glowered at him. “I’m not. And once the Queen and Daenerys returns, we can have Jon up again and invite Ser Barristan. He trained you before me, and with us in the years after. I  _ know _ he’ll see it, too. I can’t explain it. Any of it! But Jon—”

“Is Ned Stark’s son. No, I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“Rhaegar—”

“I am your prince and you will address me as such,” Rhaegar snapped at him. He pushed himself to his feet and shoved aside Arthur’s hands as he stumbled. “I am not bringing all of this up again. Not to the Queen or you or the Starks. The past is over. It cannot be changed or brought back. Now leave me.”

Ser Arthur looked as though he meant to argue further, but when Rhaegar wavered on his feet, clutched the arm of the couch, he relented. “As you say, Your Grace.”

The knight left to guard outside his door. Rhaegar trembled as he made his way into his bedchamber and collapsed on the bed. Every lie and death and hope had led him here. His life was as barren as the moon. Another dive into false hopes would never change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that until next time!
> 
> The Dragons' Song by next Tuesday. Probably a bit earlier since I'll be on a plane most of Tuesday. Then Embers, featuring Dany, our Queen :)


End file.
